Bed of Nails
by pale-jonquil
Summary: The Queen of Spades falls in love with the Six of Hearts, but some threads are not meant to twine. Cardverse AU. Trigger warning for character death, infidelity, and some disturbing images.
1. the hanged man

**Bed of Nails**

.

_"Every farthing of the cost,  
All the dreaded cards foretell,  
Shall be paid, but from this night  
Not a whisper, not a thought,  
Not a kiss nor look be lost."  
— W.H. Auden, Lullaby_

.

_i. the hanged man_

_.  
_

The Queen of Spades sits in his private rooms, arranging the Tarot cards on the table before him.

He sighs heavily as he studies his cards — another bad hand. Absently, he shuffles the rest of the deck in his hands.

There's a knock at the door. It startles him, and the deck slips from his fingers and flutters to the floor.

"Your Majesty," his Jack announces, "the Queen and the Six of Hearts are here."

"I shall be there directly, Yao."

As Arthur bends to gather the cards off the rug, one in particular catches his eye. The Lovers — one of his birth cards — is the only one to have landed face up in the pile.

Yao coughs politely.

"Yes, yes, I'm coming," Arthur peevishly sighs, getting to his feet and straightening out his waistcoat. "You needn't have a fit."

* * *

When he asks her to leave them in private, Kiku's new Six is initially hesitant to leave his side.

He explains to her that he's known Arthur for years and they are each other's most trusted friend. If there's anyone she can leave him alone with, Kiku gently assures her, it's Arthur.

She gives Arthur one final, unimpressed look before quitting the room. As soon as the door is shut behind her, Arthur turns to his friend.

"A bodyguard?" he drawls, raising an eyebrow and smirking. _"Really?"_

Kiku's lips turn upward at the corners, sharing in his friend's amusement, if a little embarrassed by it.

"Yes. Ludwig thought it best."

"And what need have you for a bodyguard, Kiku?" Arthur walks toward the table where the afternoon tea has been set out, extending his arm and beckoning Kiku to follow. "Has something happened in Hearts you've not told me about?"

"No, that is just how we are in Hearts. Better safe than sorry."

Arthur begins pouring them tea. "You'll forgive me, but she doesn't particularly strike me as the bodyguard type."

"I know nothing I say will change your mind, but give her time. I think she may surprise even you."

"The Fates know we've had enough assassination threats here in Spades to make us experts on _that_ subject."

Arthur sets the teapot down and frowns.

"You or Ludwig ought to have told me," he says, his voice softening just a tad around the edges, "or sent a message with Feliciano. I could have found you a suitable bodyguard."

"Marie is suitable."

Kiku's right, as usual — nothing he has to say is going to change Arthur's mind about the Six. But blowing on their tea and taking those first few hesitant sips gives them an easy opportunity to change the subject.

"Why do you suppose that is?" Arthur suddenly asks. "Why Spades draws such desperate, lost creatures into her realm, I mean."

Kiku shakes his head. "They say that wherever anger and fear are, there is also conflict."

Arthur grins. _"They_ say, or _you_ say?"

"Perhaps both," Kiku answers, politely smiling in turn. "Someone must have said it once, years ago, and I am saying it now. You know I would never call you angry or scared to your face, my friend."

"Of course you wouldn't, and that's why we get on so well. Insinuation is the sincerest form of flattery."

* * *

Arthur has plenty to be angry about.

"Sit up straight, young master," his riding instructor corrected him one afternoon when he was a child. "Can't have the future king of Spades slouching, now, can we?"

And young Arthur knew the man was only trying to help him, to make his journey through adolescence and into kingship a smoother one, but his classics teacher had already scolded him that morning for not conjugating his verbs correctly; his etiquette teacher told him he lacked compassion, a basic virtue for any gentleman; his history teacher was upset that he never bothered to consider the long-term consequences of his, or anyone else's, actions.

"It doesn't matter how I sit," young Arthur snapped. "I shall be king whether I slouch or no."

"Aye," his teacher fondly chuckled, "but do you wish to be outclassed by even the lowliest of paupers?"

Arthur, who always felt vaguely offended whenever someone made a reference he didn't understand, pouted and furrowed his brows in childish mortification.

But then his riding instructor held out his hand and pointed across the road to a young commoner, perhaps only a few years younger than Arthur himself. The boy had soot on his face and holes in the rags he (presumably) called clothes — but sat upon his humble pony with perfect posture.

And Arthur's riding instructor was right — it wouldn't do at all for Spades to have a king who slouched.

So when that commoner with the soot on his face and the holes in clothes became a young man and was made King of Spades, Arthur's mouth twisted into a bitter smile as he watched the crown be placed upon that common head.

* * *

Officially, Arthur and Kiku's frequent excursions between their two kingdoms are seen as keeping and strengthening diplomatic relations. In reality, it's only that they both suffer from terrible bouts of boredom.

As Arthur guides his horse down the winding brick path to the entrance of Hearts Castle one fine day, the Six comes out to meet him.

"Tell the Queen I shall be late for dinner," he orders her after dismounting and handing the reins over to a stable boy. He busies himself with removing his cloak and slipping off his gloves. "I know he usually dines at half six, but — "

"You can tell him yourself."

Arthur, for the first time since he arrived, looks at her.

"I beg your pardon?" he asks, equal parts noble indignation and haughty disbelief.

"I _said:_ You can _tell_ him your_self."_

"I heard you, _girl,"_ he snaps, shoving his cloak and gloves into her arms. "It's your audacity I wonder at."

"Oh, my audacity?" she innocently asks. She playfully rolls her eyes and grins. "Thank goodness my impertinence and impudence and insolence all flew right over your head, then."

"Have you any idea to whom you speak?"

"I do," she answers, rocking back and forth on her heels.

"And?"

"It's not the Queen of Hearts, the only person _I_ take orders from." She eyes him up and down, that maddening little smile of hers still playing across her lips. "Instead, I get a jerk who thinks himself far above his company."

Arthur would have expected her to be offended, but not humored. Not amused, not _entertained. _And for the first time in quite a while, the Queen of Spades can't think of a suitably irritable retort.

It's just as well, for at that moment she takes a step away from him, holds out her arms, and drops his fine woolen cloak and his fine leather gloves onto a patch of dirt.

"What the hell are you — !" Arthur's eyes flash and his nostrils flare. "You pick those up_ at once."_

"Nope!" She shakes her head, making her blonde waves dance. "I'm a bodyguard, not a servant."

"You _serve_ the Queen of Hearts."

"Who sees me as his equal. Which would make me _your_ equal, then, wouldn't it?"

"You are not fit to _dust my boots,_ girl."

She shrugs. "Oh, you're a grown man, I think you can dust your own boots just fine."

Arthur stoops to pick up his things and dusts them off with his hand.

"You tell the Queen I am going to be late _this instant,_ or so help me — "

"Please."

Arthur blinks. "Please?"

"You tell the Queen I am going to be late this instant, _please."_

And then the girl turns her back on him, raises a hand to give him a jaunty wave, and strolls back inside the castle.

* * *

"So sorry I'm late," Arthur says as he enters Kiku's sitting room, tying off a fresh neckcloth. "The roads were dreadful, so I washed up before coming down."

"It is no problem. Marie told me, so I made sure to save you a plate of food."

Arthur's fingers still. "She told you?"

Kiku nods.

_Curious._

"You really ought to do something about that girl," Arthur says as he throws himself into a plush armchair by the fireplace.

"Oh?" Kiku frowns as he sinks down into the chair opposite Arthur's. "And why is that?"

"Well, she's — "

_Impertinent, impudent, insolent — damn them all, must they all be Is?_

"She's rude, and crass, and absolutely refuses to acknowledge her place."

"Ah." A pleased smile spreads across Kiku's face. "That is why I like her so much. She has the courage to say the things I only think."

* * *

Ludwig visits with them briefly, but he's soon dragged away by a crying Feliciano, fretting about something _horrible_ and _disastrous_ and _what are they all going to do?!_

They each roll their eyes — to Feliciano, even the most miniscule mishaps are cause for alarm.

"He is like the boy who cried wolf," Kiku sighs after they're alone, resting his cheek against his hand, "except he really does believe in everything he says."

"Ludwig is a better man than I to have put up with such a fool for a Jack for so long. Speaking of which — "

He grips the armrest.

"Yes?"

"Tell me — " Arthur stares intently at the fire. "How is married life with someone you don't hate?"

"You do not _hate_ Alfred, surely?"

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response, my friend."

"But — it has been so long. Don't you think it would be better for your kingdom if you at least tried?"

Arthur arches an eyebrow. "If _I_ tried?"

Kiku folds his hands in his lap. He and Arthur are friends, but he knows he must now speak to him as a fellow queen.

"I am not saying you must fall in love with him. Ludwig and I are not a — a _love_ match" — he shifts uncomfortably in his chair — "but we do care about each other and we do get along very well. The kingdom is the better for it, I think. They say a kingdom needs both a king and a queen working in tandem to survive, and Spades may be economically sound at the moment, but that could all change tomorrow. And Alfred would not necessarily be a bad companion. He is known all over the world for his good humor, his kindness, his charm — "

"His annoying laugh, his sweet talking in order to get what he wants, and his complete lack of maturity, you mean."

Kiku sighs. "If that is how you wish to see it. But what I am saying is that he has made many attempts to befriend you, and despite all the years of coldness between the two of you, I think he would still like to be friends."

"I have no wish to be friends with him," Arthur huffs. "Were we not in the positions we are now — were our cards different at birth and we were both commoners living on the streets — even then I would not wish to know him."

There is a knock at the door, and the Six enters.

"Hel-_lo!"_ she airily sings. "And excuse me, Kiku — I hope I'm not interrupting anything?"

_"Actually — "_ Arthur begins.

"No, you are fine," Kiku quickly interjects, though not in an unfriendly manner. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes." She pulls out a piece of paper from within her doublet. "Ludwig just wants your approval on this before he does anything with it."

She glances at Arthur out of the corner of her eye and adds, for good measure: _"Please."_

She smiles sweetly, and Arthur's cheeks burn in annoyance.

As Kiku reads over the paper, the only sound in the room is the crackling of the fireplace. Eventually, he folds the paper and hands it back to her.

"Yes, please tell him I approve."

She nods and heads for the door.

"Oh, and Marie?"

She looks back at him, her hand on the door handle. "Yes?"

"I heard you met the Queen of Spades today."

To Arthur's great displeasure, wide smiles spread over both their faces.

_Conspirators._

"Oh, I did!" the Six cries, rushing back to Kiku and sitting on the arm of his chair.

"And what did you think of him?" Kiku asks, as though they were the only two people in the room.

"He's ill-mannered."

"Ah."

"Impolite and incredibly ill-bred."

"At least have the decency to _look_ at me when you insult me," Arthur grumbles.

"Do you think he's a bad influence on me?"

"Oh, the _worst!"_ she exclaims, scandalized, holding a hand to her heart. "After spending so much time with him, you'd never smile anymore. You'd only scowl."

_"Six."_

She finally looks at him. "With Queens like that, who needs Jokers?"

"That's enough!" Arthur screeches.

And Kiku isn't the type to giggle or cackle, but he is positively _glowing_ with mirth.

Marie rises from her seat, wishes them a good night, and saunters out of the room. Arthur watches her go, watches how her hips sway as she walks, and curses at himself under his breath.

"Please do not take offense," Kiku implores, his eyes still bright with mischief.

Arthur scoffs. "You indulge her."

"Oh, Arthur," Kiku sighs. "We are Queens. We are not promised any happiness in this life; we must find it and take it where we can."

* * *

Restless and unable to sleep that night, Arthur stares up at the ceiling and turns Kiku's words over in his mind.

They remind him of an old family story, handed down for centuries to all those born of the House of Britannia.

On the day of her wedding, one of the first noble ladies of that house changed her mind at the last second and refused to go through with the ceremony. Her intended stormed down to her rooms, grabbed her by her hair, and drug her, kicking and screaming, to the altar, where he eventually made her his wife.

Arthur thinks of this story, sometimes, though he'd much rather not — a consequence of being told and retold the tale countless times as a child, he supposes. He's heard the story so many times, in fact, that he rather likens his poor ancestor to a wailing ghost, one who's never stopped harassing his existence — begging for attention or, perhaps, a second chance. (The more fool her. Arthur's in no position to grant the latter, and can't be arsed to bestow the former.)

Her tale never really meant anything to him until he was older, when he was dragged, kicking and screaming, to his own altar.

He wonders, sometimes, if our destinies are truly dictated by the cards, or if it's more a disease of the blood.

* * *

One of Arthur's most prized possessions is his horse, Ifrit. He neither likes nor allows anyone to care for or train his horse except himself. If questioned, he'll say it's because he wants to strengthen the bond between beast and master.

But no one ever questions a queen, do they? Especially one in possession of a permanent scowl. The real truth is this: Arthur is possessive, and doesn't particularly like people touching his things.

"It's not often you see a noble taking care of his own horse," a voice says behind him as he prepares Ifrit for the journey home the next morning.

Arthur turns. Kiku's Six is standing in the doorway.

"Or that you see a noble in the stables at all."

"You oughtn't to sneak up behind people like that," he mutters, too exhausted from his sleepless night to scold her properly.

She shrugs. "All part of being a bodyguard, I guess."

He turns his attention back to his horse.

"You know you can trust me with Kiku, don't you?" she gently asks. "I promise you I won't let anything happen to him."

And she couldn't possibly know it, but that was weighing heavily on his mind this morning. It's foremost on his mind any time he concludes a trip to Hearts. He doesn't mind watching Kiku leave Spades, but whenever Arthur leaves Hearts, he feels guilty, as though he were leaving his friend to a worse fate than being surrounded by opulence and kind people.

(The wailing ghost of his ancestor keeps him awake most nights. But every so often, she's accompanied by the gnawing fear that _he_ needs Kiku more than Kiku needs _him.)_

Somehow, Arthur believes the Six.

Not that she needs to know that.

"How long were you standing there?" he eventually asks.

She chuckles softly and shakes her head at him — it was worth a try, at least.

"Long enough to know you're actually taking care of your horse correctly," she sighs, crossing her arms over her chest as she leans against the doorframe. "I'm impressed."

He throws her a skeptical look over his shoulder.

"No, really, I am!" She thoughtfully tilts her head to the side, studying him. "And I find it very interesting."

"Yet another word beginning with an I. How _droll_ you are." He turns to face her, wiping his hands on a rag. "And what else, pray tell, does the Six of Hearts find interesting?"

"About you?" She grins, her eyes glittering in a pretty way Arthur can't look away from. "Everything."

* * *

Dull days pass and eventually merge together to form an uneventful week.

And then — finally — Arthur is writing a letter in his library when Yao escorts the Six into the room.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he asks, rising from his desk.

And for once, he winces. For once, he hadn't meant to sound so rude.

"Now, that's no way to greet a guest," she says with what Arthur can only assume must be infinite reserves of patience. "What do you think, Yao?"

"I think His Majesty is incorrigible, is what I think."

Arthur rolls his eyes and groans. "Not you, too."

"Would you say his rudeness is…incurable, then?"

"Absolutely _irredeemable,_ my Lady."

_"Yao."_

"Until my payday comes at the end of the month, and then I will deny everything. Deny, deny, deny." Yao opens the door and waves to them as he leaves. "On that day, I only think of him as _inherently_ benign. Good day!"

Arthur and the Six glance at each other as the door shuts behind Yao. She smiles mischievously at him, and he tries his damnedest not to smile back.

"Don't bring your insufferable — "

As Arthur breaks off, she gasps, her eyes and mouth going wide in delighted surprise. He only stares at her in horror.

"Did you just — ?"

"No."

_"Oh,"_ she gleefully counters, "I think you _did."_

"I most certainly did _not!"_

And instead of feeling exasperated, as he expected he would be, he finds himself only rather flustered now, and he almost — a tad — not really — likes it. No one ever speaks to him in such a manner — no one _engages_ him quite like she does, he realizes, the sudden discovery of it laced with a hint of melancholy.

"What the devil are you doing here, Six?" he demands, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. "I was expecting the Queen today, not you."

"Honestly, not even a _how do you do?_ Or a _how's the weather today?"_

"How doth the afternoon find thee, Six," he dutifully, tonelessly responds. "Bloody stifling weather we're having."

"And the _roads_ — "

"I care bugger all for the roads, woman!" he shouts, the color rising in his cheeks. "You would do well to tell me _where the hell_ Kiku is."

"And _you_ would do well to offer me a glass of water — I'm parched!"

Arthur glowers fiercely at her, willing her to back down, but when it becomes apparent she's not going to, he goes to his desk and pours her a cup of water from his pitcher.

"A Queen serving a Six?" she asks, taking the cup when he offers it to her. "Well, I declare."

He watches her closely as she sips from the cup.

"You take great delight in vexing me, don't you?"

She finishes the last of her water, licking her lips.

"Oh," she says with a wink, "I take great delight in vexing everyone."

She hands him back the cup and opens the large pouch attached to her belt, hanging off her hip. She withdraws a crisply folded letter fixed with a wax seal and holds it out to him.

"As much fun as teasing you and seeing you turn red is," she explains, "Kiku sent me to deliver this to you, with his apologies."

"His apologies?"

He reaches out to take the letter, their fingers brushing for the briefest of moments. Arthur tears the letter open and skims over it.

"He's _ill?"_

The Six nods.

"But…" Arthur's face falls. "Kiku is never ill."

The Six watches as the Queen bites his lip, worry for his friend playing all across his face as he pours over the letter.

"It's nothing to worry about," she quietly reassures him, coming forward to rest a hand on his arm. "The healers say it's only a very mild case of pneumonia, and the good thing is that they caught it early."

Arthur nods his head, distracted.

She knows how much he cares for Kiku, and her heart goes out to him.

She continues: "It's so mild a case, in fact, that he hasn't even taken to his bed. He was up and sitting by the fireside this morning, having his morning tea like he always does. So…please." She smiles up at him, encouraging him to do the same. "There's no need for you to worry. He'll be back to normal in no time at all."

Arthur doesn't look convinced, but he does square his shoulders in an attempt to make the best of today's unfortunate news (dull days, uneventful week). He moves away from her, putting a respectable distance between them.

"At first I assumed Kiku would come in after you — that you'd merely ridden ahead. Why didn't he just send Feliciano with the letter?"

"Because he doesn't want you to be lonely. He sent me to keep you company in his stead, if you like."

Arthur sighs and folds up the letter. "No, that shan't be necessary, but you may stay and rest in Spades Castle for as long as you like before you return to Hearts."

"Oh, no, but thank you," she politely declines. "I've got some things to take care of back home, and the sooner I leave, the sooner I can take care of them."

She walks to the door and opens it, but turns to look at him one last time before quitting the room entirely.

"Take care of yourself, okay?"

And the Queen of Spades has never begged anyone for anything, but as fresh disappointment and all-too familiar loneliness settle about his shoulders, he thinks he could almost beg her to stay.

* * *

Arthur does all he can to avoid King Alfred. They do not take their meals together, they do not travel together, there are no shared interests or hobbies between them. If Arthur could arrange it, they would not even breathe the same air.

The few times they do see each other — like now, in the corridor leading to Arthur's private rooms — are purely accidental.

"Hey, Arthur!" Alfred cheerily greets him, waving.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Arthur spits, for the second time today. (His rudeness is wholly intentional this time.)

"Well, I wanted to see you. How're you doin' today?"

_Awful. Disappointed. Lonely. Angry._

_Always, always angry._

"I've been better," Arthur mutters.

"Oh." Alfred's smile fades. "I'm sorry to h— "

"Did you need something?" Arthur curtly snaps, bringing a hand up to rub his forehead.

"Um, well — " Alfred winces. "Kinda?"

"Get on with it, then."

Alfred nods, accepting Arthur's latest deflection of amicability with grace. It was worth a try, at least.

"Right. So." He pushes his spectacles up his nose. "Looks like I've gotta pack up and head on over to Diamonds today for a little bit. Apparently there're problems with the pirates again. I guess they're not takin' Francis seriously when he tells them, _Hey, pirates, stop your piratey ways._ But he says that if we _both_ take a firm stance on this pirate thing, it'll be more intimidating to them."

Arthur turns this information over in his head.

"How long will you be gone?" he eventually asks, the ends (Alfred's absence) entirely justifying the means (pirates).

Alfred shrugs. "I don't know. 'S long as it takes, I guess. But — do you wanna come with me?"

"Me? Go to Diamonds? With _you?"_

Alfred nods.

"I should think not."

"Aw, _come on!"_ Alfred whines. "You didn't even consider it! And I could really use your help."

"Oh?"

"You took all those political classes at the university," Alfred explains. "I don't know how to deal with stuff like that. And — "

"And what?"

"And — I don't know. It just might be nice to have someone to talk to on the ship."

"You mean someone to drive absolutely mental whilst you chatter on, a mile a minute, raving like an idiot about this, that, and the other?" Arthur snorts inelegantly. "Don't worry. There shall be plenty of people for you to wag your tongue at on that ship, I'm sure, but I've no wish to be one of them." He turns and begins walking toward his rooms. "Good day."

And just when Arthur thinks he's finally rid of Alfred —

"Why do you always do that?"

Arthur turns and gives him a quizzical look.

"I _always_ have to do everything for the kingdom _alone."_

"Oh, _dear me._ If being a king is too much for you — _well._ I daresay you ought to have thought about that before you so enthusiastically shoved the crown upon your _fat head."_

"No, I mean — maybe we could share the duties?"

Arthur clenches his fists. _"Share_ them."

"Yeah. Why not?"

"How _dare_ you," Arthur seethes. "First you _steal_ my birthright, and then you suggest we _share_ it. How benign you are."

"But that's just it, though! You were brought up in all of this. I wasn't. Dude, I didn't even know how to _write my own name_ before I killed that dragon. And I — " Alfred throws his hands up, lets them fall heavily. "I don't think I can do this alone."

"Believe me, Alfred — my opinion of you is low enough already. You've no need to act so pathetic just for my sake."

"Then — I don't get it. Why do you keep shoving everything on me? It — it's not _fair."_

"Because I love watching you fail," Arthur sneers, making for his rooms one final time. "You're so consistently _good_ at it."

* * *

They say the land of Spades is cursed, for the ancient dragon clans still roam the wilderness.

And it was the largest and most fearsome dragon in all recorded history that Alfred slew that day, many years ago. No one was braver that day than the young commoner with soot on his face and holes in his threadbare clothes — no noble, no knight, no mercenary, no hunter, no magician. In thanks, the people made him their king.

The one thing Arthur was born to do was to be become king of Spades one day — it was in his blood. But in a single dizzying whirlwind of a week, the people of Spades turned a peasant into a king and, in setting him upon the silver throne, they rendered the entire life of the last son of the House of Britannia completely meaningless.

Arthur's never forgiven them. Or Alfred.

* * *

There's a sick despair that's knotted itself a gnarled nest in Arthur's heart, a gluttonous misery that prepares to feast before he and Kiku have even parted company. It lends each of their visits a glum veneer, as Arthur sometimes feels more like a spectator during their visits than an active participant. Still, it's nice to have some sort of memory — one he might have helped make, one he might have only witnessed, dim and distant — to hold on to after Kiku's gone.

He eventually comes to realize how fond he is of the Six of Hearts' company as well.

Not that she needs to know that.

He comes to stand beside her on the steps of Spades Castle one evening as she waits for her and Kiku's carriage to finally come around. She slips on her gloves, and they share a companionable silence.

"Marie, take care of Kiku. He is very dear to me."

She looks up at him — it's the first time he's ever called her by her name.

"And — do watch out for yourself as well."

He meets her eye.

"Please."

He hastily turns and retreats back into the castle. She watches him go, a stunned look on her face, until he turns a corner and disappears from her sight completely.

.

.

**Author's notes (please feel free to skip):**

In the Arte Stella playing cards, Belgium is the six of hearts.

The Lovers card represents not only love between two people, but also that a choice must be made (oh hi there foreshadowing).

Arthur's ancestor is a shout-out to Matilda of Flanders, the wife of William the Conqueror. (Whether or not the story about him pulling her hair is true, she eventually bore him 9 children.)

Arthur's horse is named Ifrit because I've been listening to a lot of Final Fantasy music while writing this.

I hope you enjoyed! Please stick around for Chapter 2. I promise there will be kissing.


	2. the lovers

**Bed of Nails**

.

_ii. the lovers_

.

When Arthur visits the Time Shrine these days, it's more perfunctory than anything else.

It is said the Fates created the four Relics merely for the sake of tempting humans, and through tempting them, judge them. To Clubs was given the Bow and Arrow of Might; to Hearts, the Harp of Temptation; to Diamonds, the Mirror of Dreams; and to Spades, the Watch of Time.

They are revered as priceless gifts to humanity from the benevolent Fates — worshiped as a symbol of their mighty omnipotence, never to be used for personal gain. Everyone born in Spades is expected to visit the Shrine and behold the Watch of Time at least once in their lifetime, and guarding the Relics is the most significant investiture of every king and queen.

Personally, Arthur has never seen the point of the Relics. Temptation, judgment? Perfectly fine concepts, he believes, ones you would expect of faceless, bored deities.

But why call them _gifts_ if one is never allowed to play with them?

* * *

Arthur pulls up the hood of his cloak as he leaves the Shrine and wanders around the city. Eventually he ambles into the market district, realizing, with some astonishment, it's been actual _years_ since he's seen the bazaar.

He buys an apple from one of the fruit vendors, munching on it as he passes by the stalls — exotic rug sellers, jewelry hawkers, fortune tellers, spice traders, fishmongers, weapon handlers. Dreamers and schemers, the lot of them, though he supposes the dancers and singers performing on every other corner seem honest enough.

And then, he sees _her._

_What is Marie doing in Spades without Kiku?_ he wonders, watching as she peruses one of the jewelry stands.

Quite unexpectedly, a glorious warmth blossoms in his chest, flooding his entire being from head to toe.

_Is it possible she came here to see me?_

He knows she only visits Spades because she is Kiku's bodyguard, but after spending so much time in each other's presence, he also knows she doesn't _completely_ despise him. She laughs when he's feeling cross and trying to overcome it by making testy comments, the pleasant outcome being he eventually forgets what made him so cross in the first place. She doesn't shrink away when he moves to stand near her, and sometimes, when she catches him staring at her, she'll gift him with a shy smile of her own before glancing away.

It wouldn't be gross flattery, then, to assume she enjoys his company, would it?

And, _oh,_ does Arthur stare at her, though he has yet to figure out _why, _exactly, he enjoys looking at her so much. She's pretty enough, to be sure — no one would dispute that. But it's something _else_ about her that Arthur can't look away from, something else that claims him even as it calms him, something else that stirs even as it soothes. He's never been so drawn to someone before, never been quite so under anyone's spell.

Just as he's made up his mind to approach her, a man Arthur has never seen before walks up to her. Tossing his apple away, Arthur darts behind several nearby barrels of wine stacked one on top of the other and watches.

The man is the tallest Arthur's ever seen and he positively _towers_ over Marie. Little expression shows on his face as he offers her a bag of sugared almonds, though Arthur notes _she_ smiles at _him_. They chat, each pointing at the jewelry stand in turn, and the tall man eventually hands over a small coin purse to the merchant behind the stall.

Marie picks up a gold bracelet inlaid with pink and white stones. She hands it to the tall man and holds out her wrist to him, intending him to clasp it for her. Once he's done so, she tugs on his arm, beckoning him to lean down, and then she —

She —

She _leans up to kiss his cheek,_ and the warmth that spread throughout Arthur's chest but moments ago crisply drains away, like a wave tearing itself away from the beach, _rejecting_ it. He's left stunned and hollow.

(The tips of Arthur's fingers tingle with magic. He could send out slithering tendrils of smoke and _sew that damn fool's mouth shut,_ if he wanted. There's a donkey hitched to the pole supporting the awning over the knife seller's stall — Arthur could easily interchange them if he so desired. Place the ass's head on the man's body, and vice versa.)

But Marie and the tall man eventually stroll out of the narrow alley. As they go, Arthur notices the Defense Academy's symbol emblazoned on the back of the man's cape.

He must be one of the academy's blades, then, Arthur reasons — and not a very competent one, if the scar above the man's eye is any indication, he thinks with smug satisfaction.

But who is this man, really? Who — or what — is he to Marie? And why does Arthur feel sick seeing her with him?

Why does he simultaneously want to _be_ that man and _murder_ him?

* * *

"Very well done, Your Majesty!" the Ten enthusiastically congratulates Arthur. "Just like always."

Arthur removes his fencing mask and hands it to the young man, along with his foil, in exchange for a towel.

"Thank you," he pants, pausing to swallow. "That shall be all today."

The Ten nods and scurries away.

Arthur wipes his neck with the towel and is rotating his shoulders when he hears clapping behind him. Turning, he finds Marie leaning against one of the undercroft's wide stone pillars.

"I didn't know you were so skilled with a sword," she says, her tone neutral despite the smile on her face.

"Didn't know, madam, or didn't expect?" He gives her a self-satisfied grin. "Unlike the Queen of Hearts, _I_ am in no need of a bodyguard."

"See? I _told_ _you_ you were interesting."

He walks over to her, keenly aware that his loose white shirt, now drenched with sweat, is clinging to various patches of his sticky skin. He flushes with embarrassment, hoping that if she notices, she'll only assume it's the result of physical exertion.

(He can't remember the last time he was actually _embarrassed._ That she makes him feel so many new, unique emotions — and so _intensely — )_

"I wasn't expecting Kiku for another two hours yet," he says.

"He decided to come a little earlier today." A worried expression crosses her face. "I hope you don't mind?"

"Why — no. I'm just merely surprised."

"It's my fault, anyway. There's some personal business I need to take care of in the city today."

"Oh?"

She shrugs. "Nothing crazy, I'm just meeting someone."

She reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear; Arthur watches the pink and gold bracelet slide down her forearm.

He frowns and abruptly turns, walking away from her.

Pushing herself off the pillar, she follows after him.

"So this is the royal armory of Spades!" she marvels, looking around her. "I've never _seen_ so many weapons, and of so many different types, too. Do you come down here often?"

"A few times a week," he answers, fiddling with a mace on one of the wooden tables, pretending to inspect it.

"All alone?"

"Yes."

"Hmm." She clasps her hands behind her back. "I didn't even know this undercroft existed."

He chuckles. "Snooping, are we?"

"No. I just got lost, is all."

Arthur doesn't believe her. If she's as capable a bodyguard as Kiku believes her to be, she'd know the layout of Spades Castle by now. Or, she simply could have said she wished to spend some time training. Someone as clever as her would never get lost, unless —

Unless she _wanted_ to get lost.

He turns around, but she's already gone.

* * *

One day, Arthur is wiping his face with a towel, having just finished another sparring match with his Ten. When he pulls the towel away and opens his eyes, Marie is pointing her sword at his chest.

"Your Majesty!" the Ten worriedly exclaims, rushing to his side.

"It's alright, Ten," Arthur says, holding his arm out in front of the young man, never taking his eyes off Marie.

He grins wolfishly at her. "I distinctly recall telling you not to sneak up on people."

"You only said I _oughtn't to." _She lowers her sword, rests a hand on her hip, and grins back at him. "You never actually told me _not_ to."

"Only because I've come to realize you'd never follow any order _I_ tried to give you."

"Didn't stop you from trying about — oh, _mmm_ — fifty times, now, did it?"

"Forty-seven times. I counted."

She throws her head back and laughs.

"Care for a friendly match?" she eventually asks, her eyes bright and merry. "Unless you've had enough for today."

Arthur turns his head toward the Ten but doesn't look at him, his eyes still locked with Marie's.

"Ten?"

"Yes, Sire?"

"Fetch me my claymore."

"But — but _sir!" _the Ten frets. "I don't think it would be wise to — "

"Don't be alarmed, lad," Arthur says, stepping away and rolling his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. "I intend to go easy on her."

Marie playfully rolls her eyes. "And here I was, going to say the same thing about _you."_

As soon as Arthur has his sword in his hands and he's sent the Ten away, Marie springs into action and attacks him. Without a hint of warning, she brings her sword down upon him and his first reaction, after expertly blocking it, is to laugh — a brisk, unexpectedly enthusiastic rush of air that she gamely returns.

"If you give up now," she offers as they break apart and begin circling one another, "I promise I won't tell Kiku."

He licks his lips and rotates his wrist, reassuring himself of his grip on the hilt of his sword. "Tempting, but I'd never hear the end of it from _you."_

"True," she acknowledges, and rushes him again.

And Arthur realizes, as they spar, that she's only ever challenged him with words before. Now he knows she can more than hold her own against him physically as well, giving as good and as fiercely as she gets. Kiku was right — she _does_ surprise him, and Arthur's never felt more alive than in this exhilarating moment.

He manages to back her up against one of the pillars, pinning her against the smooth rock with his body. Her eyes are focused on the swords between them, but his are focused on her face, so close he can count each of her eyelashes. Their muscles tremble and quake against each other as they struggle to gain the upper hand, each of their hot, gasping breaths mingling in the miniscule space between them.

"We seem," he pants, "to be equally matched."

Throwing all her weight into it, she manages to shove him off of her with her shoulder.

"What do you suggest?" she asks, taking a deep breath and warily eyeing him up and down.

"Perhaps something a bit dirtier."

He thrusts out his foot, hooking it around her ankle and deftly sweeping her leg out from under her. She lets out a startled yelp as she falls to the floor, rolling onto her side and supporting herself with her forearm.

"Do you surrender?" he asks, gloating down at her.

Her hair shielding her face, she sucks in a short, painful breath through her teeth. "I — I think I'm — "

Arthur crouches down beside her, suddenly concerned. "Are you alright? Have I hurt you?"

And before he realizes what she's doing, she lunges, grabbing him and throwing him onto his back so roughly that it knocks the wind right out of him.

She kicks his sword out of his reach and climbs on top of him, straddling him as she holds the flat of her own sword against his neck.

They stare at each other, pink-cheeked, their chests heaving. Arthur watches the sweat gather on her neck, follows it as it slips down her feverish skin and disappears somewhere beneath the collar of her shirt.

She removes her sword from his neck and tosses it aside. Bracing her hands against the floor on either side of his head, she glares down at him.

"You_ cheated,"_ she accuses, genuinely upset with him.

There's a wet tendril of hair plastered to her cheek. He reaches up and carefully _(oh, tenderly, oh)_ brushes it away.

"So did you," he manages, his voice unexpectedly husky.

Still upset, she rolls off him in one fluid movement. She takes several strides away from him, putting a good distance between them, and begins dusting herself off. She keeps her back turned to him all the while.

Arthur peels himself off the floor, grunting lightly as he does so, drawing his knee up slightly and bracing an elbow against it.

"Would you be so good as to apologize to Kiku for me?" he finally thinks to ask, still half-dazed. "We must have been keeping him waiting this half hour, at least."

"Kiku's not here."

Arthur blinks. "He's not?"

"No." She reaches to pick her sword off the ground and sheaths it. "I came by myself. He gave me the day off."

Without meeting his eye, she runs out of the undercroft.

By the time he's thought to go after her, she's already left the castle.

* * *

He dreams of her that night. It's not the first time he's dreamed of her, nor will it be the last. It's always the same dream, but Arthur never grows weary of it, never stops looking forward to it.

She's standing on a beach, looking out over the vast ocean, her hair gently swaying in the breeze. Her back is turned to him, but he knows, somehow, that she's waiting for him.

* * *

Kiku is Arthur's best friend.

Because of this, he waits what he believes to be an appropriate amount of time before asking, as nonchalantly as he can: "Marie is not in the castle today?"

"No, I have given her the day off."

And because Kiku is his best friend, and it is _he_ Arthur comes to see when he visits Hearts — not his Six — he absolutely _refuses_ to let any hint of disappointment show.

"I do not believe," Arthur carefully begins, "that you've told me the story of how, exactly, she came to be your bodyguard."

"It is simple, really. There was a contest of swords, and she won."

Kiku picks up a biscuit and lightly dunks it in his tea.

"She was my favorite during all the preliminary matches," he confides. "I was hoping she would win. But I was anxious for her during the final match, because she ended up fighting her own brother."

"Her brother?" Arthur asks, intrigued, as Marie's never mentioned any of her family before.

"Yes. She has one older brother. He is very tall and looks very strong — gives off an intimidating air, especially with the scar above his eye, but Marie assures me he has a good heart. He easily beat his opponents during his preliminary sets, but neither he nor she knew they had _both_ entered the contest until the very end, when they were forced to fight against each other. But I knew that if she could defeat him, she could protect me from anything."

Arthur busies himself with his napkin, making sure to keep his eyes averted from Kiku's, and fancies himself very clever. "If he's as frightening as you say, I wonder how she came to beat him."

"Ah," Kiku smiles, a knowing look in his eye, "that is the other thing. She must have had very good luck to beat him, I think, and I will never say no to a little luck."

Arthur scoffs. _"Luck."_

"You cannot blame me for being a little superstitious. The cards say the day Hearts falls, the entire world will fall."

"Sentimental rot. And playing favorites on the part of the cards, I daresay." Arthur rises from his chair at the table, stretches, and falls into his usual armchair by the fireplace. "So. What happened to her brother?"

"He has been living in Spades for some time now."

_"Has_ he."

"Yes. He is an instructor for the Defense Academy."

Everything finally comes together in Arthur's mind then as he realizes the tall man he saw with Marie at the bazaar must have been her _brother._ Relief — hope — a desperate longing to be in her presence — everything he's tried to quell, without much success, since first mistaking her brother for a suitor reawakens and surges within him.

For all the exquisite chaos going on within him at the moment — for all that this sudden revelation makes him feel like a jittery, giddy little boy on his birthday — outwardly, the only change in Arthur is that he begins bouncing his leg up and down.

If Kiku notices anything amiss, he doesn't say.

"After she won," he continues, "her brother decided that there was not much left in Hearts for him, and he decided to seek his fortune in Spades." He sighs and shakes his head. "But that is how most young people are these days. They would rather find their fortune abroad than look for it at home. I cannot blame them, though. Not when we have lost two of our princesses to other kingdoms. Still, it is lamentable…"

"Are they close?"

"I…beg your pardon?"

"She and her brother," Arthur quickly clarifies. "Are they close?"

Kiku sets his lips in a tight, thin line and folds his hands in his lap. "Perhaps you should be asking _her_ this."

He glances at Arthur's leg. It's enough to make Arthur immediately still it.

* * *

Arthur cuts his visit to Hearts short that day.

_Kiku is my best friend,_ he reminds himself during the ride home, though he's never needed to remind himself of this fact quite so often before. _He had every right to be put out. I ought not to think of her so much whilst in Kiku's presence._

(Or in the garden, where the roses are as the same color as her lips when she anxiously bites them.)

(Or in the music room, where he tries to teach himself to play piano, but the notes never come as easily as her lilting humming seems to.)

(Or — _everywhere,_ really.)

* * *

Arthur shakes his head and laughs at himself as he watches Marie's brother demonstrate a blocking technique to a group of wide-eyed, slack-jawed young blades in the Defense Academy's courtyard, for it's so bleeding _obvious_ to him now that they are, in fact, siblings.

Not only do they have the same color hair and eyes, they even share some of the same facial expressions — when her brother discovers a few of the blades not paying attention to the lesson, he goes completely still and narrows his eyes at them, waits for them to realize their grievous mistake, just as Arthur's seen Marie do on occasion. The lines and angles of the brother's face are much sharper than the sister's, but Arthur's spent enough time gazing at Marie to be able to recognize the same sharp lines and angles in her face, hidden as they are behind soft, feminine curves.

And as Arthur watches her brother, an idea comes to him.

* * *

"Will!" Marie happily shrieks when he walks into Kiku's sitting room alongside Arthur late one afternoon. She runs to her brother and throws her arms about him. Though he looks a little embarrassed by her great display of affection, he nonetheless wraps one arm lightly around her as well.

"What are you doing here?" she good-naturedly wonders, pulling away to look up at him.

"May I present," Arthur announces with a flourish of his hand, "my new Nine."

Marie looks from one to the other.

"Your new Nine?" she asks Arthur.

"Yes. Willem has graciously agreed to become my personal bodyguard."

"Oh, but — " Marie draws her brows together in confusion. "What about the Academy?"

Willem only shrugs his shoulders. "The price was right."

* * *

After Willem is formally introduced to Kiku, the rest of the evening passes in comfortable companionship. Marie never leaves her brother's side, eventually managing to get him alone by the window. She can't keep from squealing in sheer delight every now and then, can't keep from reaching over and giving him a quick hug.

With as much as Arthur and Kiku visit one another, she knows she's going to be seeing much more of her brother from now on. Before, she only got to see him when she traveled to Spades, either with Kiku or on one of her days off; in addition to being an instructor at the academy, Willem also served as warden of the youngest blades' hall of residence and never had much time to spare away from his boisterous, impetuous (and numerous) charges. But now, as Arthur's Nine, he will be able to come see his sister in Hearts just as often.

As the clock chimes the hour, it dawns on her how much more of Arthur this means she'll be seeing. With Willem sworn to protect the Queen of Spades, there won't be any excuse for them to be apart.

"You got somethin' on your face?" Willem asks.

"Hmm — what?" One of Marie's hands flies up to her cheek. "I don't know, do I?"

"He hasn't taken his eyes off you all night."

Her heart flutters, because there's only one person he can mean.

She looks over at Arthur and catches him staring at her. It can't merely be a trick of the firelight, can it? That intensity behind his eyes, as though his soul were burning from the inside out.

_Unlike the Queen of Hearts, I am in no need of a bodyguard._

He doesn't look away — but then, neither does she.

* * *

Arthur eventually asks Willem how he got the scar above his eye.

All Willem reveals is that his sister could tell the story better than he could.

* * *

They didn't realize it growing up, Marie explains, but they were poor.

Oh, they knew they weren't _rich,_ and they knew they didn't have much. But when their mother and father perished in a gruesome carriage accident, they had even less.

"Will worked so hard to provide for me after that," Marie says as she sits under the cool shade of a tree with Arthur. As it was far too beautiful a day to waste it inside, she insisted they all ride out to the forest for a picnic.

She watches her brother and Kiku as they sit together on the riverbank, their feet dangling in the water. Thanks to her, Willem discovered Kiku shared his love of small animals and brought along his pet rabbit. The rabbit huddles in Kiku's lap as he talks with Willem and strokes its soft fur.

"He was barely just a teenager," she continues, "but he willingly took on the responsibility of raising a little girl. I owe him a lot, more than I'll probably ever know or could possibly repay." She sighs very heavily, weighed down by thoughts of the past. "I hope he knows how much I love him."

Arthur idly twirls a long piece of field grass between his fingers. "Kiku once mentioned a falling out between you two."

"Oh, _did_ he?" She grins, taking the piece of grass and tapping him on the nose with it. "I bet he only mentioned it because a _certain somebody_ asked!"

Arthur snatches back the grass.

"Just tell me," he grumbles.

"Well — "

She hesitates, considering how, exactly, to begin.

"When we were kids, we were a duo — we were always together. The neighbors even talked about us like we were one person. But despite how close we were, we grew up and became two entirely separate people. We developed different tastes, different attitudes, different mindsets, but you never consider that when you're young and making all kinds of plans for the future together. It's only natural, but I think when he realized what was happening, Will was really hurt."

(Kiku passes the rabbit to Willem. When their fingers touch, Kiku tenses and quickly snatches his hand back. He waves his hands in an exaggerated manner, and Marie recognizes it as his way of apologizing, though her brother didn't seem to mind the brief contact at all. Throughout the long and, by the look of it, _profuse_ apology, he stares at Kiku with a bewildered look on his face.)

"I grew up and wanted to go see the world," she says, "but he thought it would be better if I stayed home. It made me so angry, because I was old enough to make my own decisions about my life, and we both said some things we shouldn't have. But now that I'm older, I can see where he was coming from. He didn't want to lose another family member if he could help it. I'm not proud of it, but we had a fight. It was — " She frowns and shifts, uncomfortable. "It was pretty bad, actually."

"Did_ you_ give him the scar?"

She nods. "You couldn't imagine the _guilt_ I felt about the fight, even though I got what I wanted in the end. My brother has the biggest, best heart of anyone I know. But the thing is — for all his good heart, for as much as he cares, sometimes he cares too much. Sometimes he doesn't realize he's holding on too tight."

"But the two of you are on better terms now?"

"Oh, yes," she says with smile, her mood lifting. She looks down at her bracelet and gently strokes one of the stones. "We understand each other much better now, I think, now that everything's said and done. So there was _some_ good to come out of it all."

(Kiku has resolutely refused to look at or talk to Willem since their fingers touched, but that doesn't stop Willem from stealing furtive little glances at _him.)_

"Thank you for taking my brother on," she says, turning and giving Arthur her full attention. "It's _such_ an honor, and he might not ever say it out loud, but I know he thinks of it that way as well."

Arthur swallows and turns his head away.

"Much as I respect your brother," he murmurs, "I didn't do it for him."

She brings a hand up and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, shielding her face from him. Her responses to him are always so _physical,_ she's noticed — always overwhelming, sometimes paralyzing. Her heart races when she's near him, she sometimes finds herself short of breath — even now, as she smiles, her lips are quivering as they curl up and squeeze into her cheeks, as though struggling to contain all the sudden joy dancing inside her.

"Well!" she eventually exclaims, falling backward and stretching out on the blanket. She lightly pokes at his arm. "Now that _I've_ told you all about _me,_ it's time _you_ told me all about _you."_

He smiles down at her. "What would you like to know?"

"Hmm. Tell me…" She rests her hands behind her head, drawing her knees up and crossing one leg over the other.

"Tell me why you dislike King Alfred so much."

The smile fades form Arthur's face, his expression turning as hard and impenetrable as rock.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," she quickly says. "It's just — "

She bites her lip.

"What?"

"It's just — I feel so _bad_ for you sometimes, Arthur. It must be so awful to be stuck with someone you dislike so much."

"I've no need of your pity," he declares, his pride momentarily getting the better of him, though there's no real venom in it.

"But it's not pity. I'm just — concerned."

He's truly never seen eyes like hers before, he thinks, as he looks into them. Beyond the loveliness of the color, beyond their captivating expressiveness, they're so remarkably _genuine._ He couldn't possibly be more grateful for the worry he sees in them; it makes him relent and open up in a way he would do for no one else — not even, he realizes, for Kiku.

"My parents died when I was very young," he eventually begins. "There were rumors it was assassination, but I shall never truly know for certain. Funny, that."

He tosses the long piece of grass away.

"Yao acted as Regent until my coming of age. And I quickly learned — it was related to me almost daily — the significance of my position: As the only child of the king and queen, I was to rule Spades one day. I knew there was no other path for me in this life, so I threw myself into my education. When I look back on my youth, that's all it is, really — endless preparation. Lessons in diplomacy, geography, history, politics, strategy, negotiating, economics, war tactics, languages. Culture, as well — art, music, dance, literature, philosophy, etiquette."

_"Goodness,"_ Marie breathes. "That sounds like a lot for a child to handle."

"Perhaps, but it was what I was born to do — House Britannia helped found Spades, after all. And then — "

He clenches and unclenches his fists.

"And then _Alfred_ came along and slew that dragon, and everyone fell so _ridiculously_ in love with him — _Alfred,_ who cannot even tell up from down! When the people wished to make him king, and the Parliament agreed to it — I felt betrayed. In one moment, my entire life was rendered meaningless."

"Not _meaningless,_ though?" she gently ventures.

"Oh, yes." He laughs at that, a dark, bitter sound. "How else would one explain no longer having any use for the things one was taught? I had spent my _entire life_ preparing for a moment that, in the end, never came. I felt so — so bloody _useless._ There was nothing else I knew how to do — nothing else I was competent at, nothing else I was prepared for. What was I supposed to do, if not rule? Who was I supposed to be, if not king?"

"Sometimes you seem so — so angry."

"That's because I came to my senses and stopped feeling so damn _sorry_ for myself. I _am_ angry. Angry at the people, angry at Alfred, angry at the Parliament. _Especially_ the Parliament, for it was _their_ brilliant idea for the two of us to _marry."_

Marie sits up and places a hand on his back, rubbing small circles to comfort him.

"Those sodding _idiots_ — they actually believed they were being _kind,_ granting me the position of queen. A consolation prize of sorts, I suppose — a way of acknowledging my bloodline. And they hoped that with my upbringing and all my knowledge, I could help Alfred — who had no education whatsoever — become a _great_ and _glorious_ leader."

He makes a disgusted noise and rolls his eyes.

"My birthright is gone forever from me now. The only way I shall ever become king is if something were to happen to Alfred, but that is unlikely as he's so young and healthy and _perfect."_

"If the people put him there, they might remove him one day, if they wanted."

"I doubt it. They _adore_ him."

Marie scoots closer and inclines her head.

"That's just not the cards some people are dealt, I guess," she whispers, her voice soft and soothing. "Some people are never meant to be friends, or lovers, or comrades. But we do all have to share this world together and learn to live with each other." She covers his hand with hers. "I don't want to see the hate eat away at you. Please don't let the people's decision to make Alfred king make you hate them. Or him."

"He didn't have to accept it."

"No, that's true. But I think that — from what I can tell, at least — he took it with the best intentions of helping people and making a difference. Just as you were suddenly unprepared for a life without the use of any of the things you'd been taught, he was suddenly unprepared for a life that required things he was _never_ taught. So — your life _does_ have meaning, Arthur, and you _are_ still needed, just — in a different way now. I think Alfred needs you very much."

_"I_ don't need _him."_

_But I do need you,_ he suddenly thinks, and almost says, the return of Willem and Kiku from the riverbank preventing its utterance.

* * *

"Willem, there is something I would ask of you."

Willem inclines his head ever so slightly.

"Your mother was a florist, was she not?"

"She was."

"Tell me — what do you know of flowers?"

* * *

Marie gasps when her brother leads her into Arthur's garden some weeks later. Rows upon rows of tulips are pillowed softly against each other, swaying elegantly in the gentle breeze.

She runs from a patch of blushing pink tulips to fawn over a grouping of buttery yellow ones. Squatting amongst the purple tulips, she reverently caresses the petals, their color as regal and majestic as the traditional colors of Spades royalty.

_"Will_ — did you do this?"

He nods.

"They're perfect. All the colors — oh, Will." She smiles proudly at him. "There's no other word for it except _perfect._ I could stay out here in this garden forever! But — " She looks around. "Where are all the roses?"

"Got rid of 'em."

"Aw, but why? They were lovely and they smelled so nice."

"He told me to remove the roses and plant your favorite flowers here instead."

Looking at all the tulips, she smiles and loses herself for a moment. She'd always been so content with her life, and never once dared complain, because some people are far worse off than she. She has a brother whom she dearly loves and who loves her in return. She has a well-paying job, a roof over her head, plenty of food in her belly. She genuinely likes and gets along with everyone in Hearts Castle. She has no enemies and plenty of time to herself.

But then she met _him,_ and realized there was something missing. She's discovered an empty place deep in her heart of hearts she never knew existed — a place, somehow, only _he_ can fill.

When she looks back up at her brother, there's an odd look in his eyes she doesn't like.

"Sis." He kneels next to her and clutches her wrist, moving her hand away from the flowers. "Don't be stupid."

She blinks. "What do you mean?"

He releases her wrist. "Look, I can't tell you what to do. But — don't be stupid. Just be careful."

He gives her a meaningful look before returning inside the castle.

* * *

Everything changes the night of Alfred's birthday ball.

The Spades ballroom is crowded, full to the brim with swirling dancers and posturing dignitaries from each of the four kingdoms. Though Alfred seems to be heartily enjoying himself _(When isn't he, though?_ Arthur sneers), it's exactly the same as every other ball Arthur has ever been forced to attend, and he takes little pleasure in it.

His attending the ball tonight, much like his trips to the Time Shrine, is wholly perfunctory — his entire life, he suddenly realizes, is nothing but perfunctory, a ceaseless cycle of unwelcome obligation. The dull horror of it settles in the pit of his stomach.

This "gift" of being queen — Arthur is _sick_ of "gifts." What's the point in calling it a _gift_ if one never finds any enjoyment in it? Queens are only meant to take up a few pet causes and, through marriage, cement alliances, but Arthur knows he was meant for more than all this.

Still, for all his learning, for all his consulting of the Tarot cards, he can't seem to find a way to escape this eternally bad hand.

* * *

After searching for her all night, when he finally spots Marie in the crowd, his eyes don't let her go. But when she finally _(oh, finally, oh)_ walks up to him, he quickly averts his eyes and sips his champagne, acting as though this was the first he's noticed her all night.

"So," she says with a smile, the candlelight adding an additional glint to her eyes. "You don't dance?"

He snorts and looks sideways at her. "Not if I can help it."

"For shame!" she cries, bumping his arm with her shoulder. "I thought all gentlemen danced. And I know you know _how."_

"The only woman who could possibly induce me to stand up with her is not at liberty to dance at the moment."

With a nod of his head he gestures to a corner of the ballroom, Marie following his gaze to where Kiku sits with her brother, sharing a plate of food between them.

_(Don't be stupid,_ her brother told her, but she knows he also planted chrysanthemums — Kiku's favorite — in Arthur's garden. _Don't be stupid,_ even though she's seen him and Kiku holding hands in the Hearts Castle library. _Don't be stupid,_ but she wonders who he was really warning that day — her, himself, or the both of them.

_That's just not the cards some people are dealt,_ she remembers telling Arthur, and how she could laugh, because maybe some things are just in the blood.)

"No, you're right," she says. "As much as I love it, I can't dance and keep my eyes on Kiku at the same time. But, there's nothing to keep me from talking." She smiles up at him. "Do you talk, sir?"

He smirks at her. "Indeed I do, madam."

"Too much, sometimes, I think — "

"And _here it comes."_

" — and usually about nothing at all. My mind tends to wander."

"I've no idea how _you_ turned out so saucy. Your brother scarcely says three words together."

"I'm sorry — what?"

They look at each other, each trying to hold onto their straight face and failing miserably.

"Do you know," Arthur says after their shared fit of laughter has ended, "I used to despise your teasing. But now…well, I shan't say I've grown to _like_ it, because I haven't. But I am not entirely averse to it, either."

"Good, because I think you're just the type of man I could tease forever."

_Don't be stupid,_ her brother said, but only a fool could ignore what's between them. It's electric and utterly irresistible, stunning in its simplicity but frightening in the breadth and depth of it; it's begging to be acknowledged, fed, kissed within a beautiful, indecent inch of its life.

* * *

Arthur knows something is wrong when Yao, always so fastidiously well put together, rushes up to them through the crowd, out of breath and his hat sitting slightly askew.

"Your Majesty," he pants. "Lady Six. I am sorry — to trouble you, but — "

"Calm yourself, man," Arthur says, placing a hand on Yao's shoulder. "Whatever is the matter?"

Marie supports Yao's other shoulder. "Yao, are you alright? Do you need to sit down for a minute?"

"This — cannot wait." He looks squarely into Arthur's eyes. _"Dragons."_

* * *

Arthur sneaks Marie and Yao into one of several alcoves separated from the rest of the ballroom by a thick curtain. Marie was hesitant at first — as much as she'd _like _to know what's going on, she really has no business sticking her nose into official Spades matters — but Arthur gently grabbed her elbow and pulled her along with him before she could protest.

"Dragons?" Arthur asks Yao, lighting the candles in the small space with a snap of his fingers. "Are you _quite_ sure?"

Yao nods, bracing one of his hands against the wall as he catches his breath. "Positive."

Arthur curses under his breath.

"I am sorry, Your Majesty, for ruining your good time — "

"Never mind that now," Arthur firmly insists. "Tell me everything you know. Leave out nothing."

Yao, having gotten his breathing under control, brushes his wild hair away from his face and readjusts his clothes.

"A dragon has been sighted by the scouts patrolling the borderlands," he begins.

"But aren't there usually dragons in Spades?" Marie asks.

"Yes, my Lady, but they usually keep to their dens in the hills. This one is on the move and headed toward the town."

_"Fuck,"_ Arthur says, tersely. "Just one?"

"A small one, yes."

"It could be a youngling, then."

"A dragon is a dragon is a dragon," Marie warns. "Even if it _is_ a baby, you shouldn't underestimate it."

Yao wrings his hands.

"I apologize for bothering you with this, Your Majesty," he says. "Normally, I would go to the King with an issue like this, but — it is his birthday, and — "

"No," Arthur says, absently waving his hand, his eyebrows drawn together in thought. "You did better to come to me. If everyone were to find out, the palace would become Bedlam in an instant."

"What are we going to do?"

Arthur considers all the possibilities in his mind, but it's clear to him there's only one thing to do.

"I'll go out on my own and take care of it," he says.

"But — Your Majesty — !"

"I'm the best sorcerer in all of Spades, Yao — I can handle a youngling. And I want this kept _quiet._ I don't want anyone knowing about this. You stay here and make up something to account for my being gone if anyone asks."

Yao stares at Arthur, but eventually nods. He swiftly darts around the curtain, rejoining the revelers in the ballroom.

"I'll go with you," Marie says.

Arthur's eyes widen. "Absolutely not."

"But — _Arthur — "_

"I forbid it!" he declares, cutting the air with his hand, the candlelight flickering around them. "You are under no obligation to aide me in this. You owe Spades _nothing."_

_I'm not doing it for Spades,_ she suddenly thinks, _I'm doing it for you. Because —_

_Because I —_

"You can't go _alone,"_ she insists, clutching his arm. "You may be the best sorcerer there is, but this is a _dragon. _You'll need a sword to back you up. And you can't bring any soldiers with you without tipping everyone off as to what's going on. Even if you _did_ manage to sneak out with a group of soldiers, wouldn't that just frighten the dragon? Make it panic? It'll be easier for two people to take it on than a dozen."

"What of — what of Kiku?" Arthur asks, grasping at anything and everything to keep her out of this.

"He's with Will, he'll be fine."

He swallows. If anything should happen to her —

"Marie — I can't let you. I_ can't."_

"Now, you see here!" She waves a finger in his face, though there's no malice in it at all. "I've made up my mind and that's final. I'll never forgive you if you go out there alone and get yourself hurt. You _know_ I'm right about this, and you _know_ you can't boss me around and tell me not to come because you're not my Queen."

Despite himself, he grins. "I could easily convince Kiku to forbid your going."

"I wish you would," she coolly challenges him, hands on her hips, "but I bet you won't."

"You are — _infuriating,"_ he says, and in that moment, he knows he's in love with her. He shakes his head, smiling fondly at her. "Admirably tenacious, to be sure, madam, but _bloody infuriating."_

She smiles and winks at him before pushing the curtain aside and leaving the alcove. After a few moments, so as not to attract any attention, he extinguishes the candles with a flick of his wrist and follows after.

* * *

They hurry down to the stables, saddle their horses, and ride out to look for the dragon, Arthur conjuring a fireball to light their way in the dark of the night.

The dragon, when they finally come upon it, is a horrible thing, as all dragons are — sharp scales reeking of piping hot blood, too many crooked teeth caged behind snarling lips. Arthur and Marie were both right: It _is_ a youngling, but it's still a fearsome wretch with talons as long as Arthur is tall, a monster made desperate in its search for its kin.

"What should we do?" Marie shouts to Arthur as they dismount their horses. "Should we kill it?"

"Let's try to coax it back into the hills," he shouts back, "lest its clan comes to wreak havoc on the town out of revenge for killing one of their own."

Dragons, as a general rule, do not fear fire — because they breathe it, they are used to the sight and feel of it, and as they are born from it, their bodies are resistant to it.

But they _are_ weak against ice. Arthur flings his arms, hurling huge spears of jagged ice at the creature. Pulling thick sheets of it out from the fabric of the earth itself, he pins the dragon in between parallel rows of ice. If the creature has the sense to follow the guide Arthur has created, the path will lead it back toward its home in the hills.

The dragon plays into Arthur's plan for the most part, only resisting once, shrieking and whacking the towering heaps of ice into sharp bits with its tail. It advances upon Arthur, but before it has the chance to bellow and breathe fire, Marie attacks the weak webbing on the back of its ankle.

"It's tail!" Arthur yells. "Cut off its tail!"

To her credit, Marie doesn't question him — she grew up in Hearts and is not as knowledgeable about dragons as Arthur is, but now is decidedly _not_ the time. She cuts the tail off with a series of messy hacks (it will grow back, Arthur explains later), frightening the monster enough that it begins trudging back toward the hills of its own accord.

They eventually lose sight of it, but soon they hear the cries of several other dragons being sent up into the night. The curious dragon, being cured of its wanderlust, has finally reunited with its clan.

* * *

In the end, the most Marie and Arthur have to worry about are ripped clothes and some superficial cuts and bruises.

"Don't you know any white magic?" she asks, brushing his hair away from the large cut slashed across the bridge of his nose.

"No, I've only ever studied black."

"Because white magic would never, _ever_ come in handy, I suppose? Like right now?"

He shrugs. "If you know enough black magic, you should have no need for any white."

She laughs loudly at that, though it's far too shrill and shaky to be anything like her normal laugh. Her legs suddenly feel useless beneath her, as though they would give out, and she grabs onto his arm to steady herself.

"Are you alright?" he asks, throwing an arm around her.

"No, I — I'm fine. It's just — I've never fought a dragon before." She releases another short burst of hysterical laughter. "I've never even _seen_ a dragon before, I'd only heard stories."

Arthur squeezes her shoulder. "You were marvelous, darling."

"Was I?" she asks, dazed.

"Quite so."

"Oh, but — " She looks around them. "Where is Carbuncle?"

Arthur conjures several fireballs, sending them out to melt his still-standing ice. One he keeps to illuminate the darkness around them.

"Ah — " He sucks in a breath through his teeth. "It seems as though your horse has run off."

"Oh, dear."

"Not used to magic, is he?"

"No. Or dragons."

Arthur chuckles and squeezes her shoulder again.

"Let's look for Ifrit," he says, gingerly leading her along. "He's used to both and wouldn't have gone far."

* * *

When they find Ifrit, patiently waiting for his master near the edge of the adjacent forest, Arthur offers to lead him back to the castle whilst she rides astride.

But Marie knows he's as exhausted as she is, and as Ifrit is young and vigorous, she sees no reason why they _both_ can't ride him. Arthur voices no objection, and Ifrit takes them back to Spades Castle at a leisurely pace.

Upon entering the stables, they find them empty.

"Where are all the stable hands?" she asks.

"Still waiting in the drive with all the guests' horses and carriages, I expect," Arthur answers. "The ball must not be over yet."

He slides off Ifrit and lifts his arms out to help her down. The shock from fighting the dragon made her alert and jittery at first, but the weariness settled deeply into her bones on the way back to Spades Castle. She drags her tired, heavy limbs from the saddle and tumbles into Arthur's arms.

She wraps her arms around his waist and holds him to her, snuggling against his chest. Her sudden embrace surprises him at first, but she feels lovely and warm and _right_ in his arms, so he doesn't hesitate to envelope her in his arms as well, one hand cupping the back of her head.

_"Mmm,"_ she dreamily sighs, listening to his heartbeat. She could feel it against her back as they rode together on his horse, though it's beating faster now. And she's never realized, until this moment — until _him _— what a lonely echo the beating of one heart creates, but the tender attention of another is such stuff as dreams are made on.

She pulls away and looks up at him.

He tangles his fingers in her hair as he gazes down at her —

She pressers her body flush against his, gripping his shirt —

And their lips finally meet.

They clutch onto each other, needy, _desperate,_ kissing as though it's the last thing they'll ever do. There's a part of themselves they each recognize in the other, a part that knows exactly what they want — each other, forever — and what will happen if they don't get it — no idea at all, but it won't be pretty.

The kiss is yielding, obedient lips _(you weave your words together so prettily, my love — won't you weave some more for me?),_ slick, covetous tongues _(I'll make you more mine than you already are, you'll see), _hands everywhere _(I'm yours, show me, I'm yours, yours, yours, yours)._

They gasp for air against each other's lips, not daring to truly pull apart for even a moment — not now, _not ever, never let me go, where have you been all my life?_ — finding just barely enough to keep them going, because they haven't waited just a year for this kiss — this is the kiss they've waited their entire lives for.

Arthur walks her backwards toward the wall of the stable, lifting her up and pinning her against it. She wraps her legs around him and buries her fingers in his hair, the two of them lightly moaning into each other's mouths.

"Wait, wait!" she suddenly cries, turning her head away.

Arthur — so enthralled, so determined to let her drown him like the mermaids of legend — hadn't even realized she'd broken the kiss at first, his lips falling clumsily against her cheek and earlobe.

_(Me, you, us, yes — now that you've made me, I couldn't bear to break.)_

"You're not just kissing me because of — the battle — the adrenaline — ?"

"You silly, darling girl," he breathlessly laughs, holding her face in his hands. "I have wanted to kiss that perfect mouth of yours from the moment you first threw my gloves into the dirt."

.

.

**Author's notes (please feel free to skip):**

In the Arte Stella playing cards, Netherlands is the Nine of Spades and Thailand is the Ten of Spades. Interestingly, though Liechtenstein is the Queen of Diamonds and Hungary is the Queen of Clubs, they are also the Eight and Five of Hearts, respectively. I also like to think Arthur's riding instructor from the first chapter is Ancient Rome (the Five of Spades).

In addition to _Final Fantasy _and _Vision of Escaflowne,_ another influence on this story is various elements from _King Lear. _I know this chapter was long and kind of boring, but it set up a lot of things for future chapters. Just stay with me, because I promise the next chapter is where the actual plot finally comes in, and _shit is going to get so real, y'all._

More pretentious Shakespeare references (you can't blame me, though! He really was the best): Arthur's wanting to put the ass's head on Ned's body is a reference to Bottom in _A Midsummer Night's Dream._ "We are such stuff as dreams are made on" is from _The Tempest._


	3. death

**Bed of Nails_  
_**

_._

_iii. death_

._  
_

" — and _that,"_ Arthur proudly announces, "is why chemists in Spades are no longer allowed to sell snake charming potions."

Marie tried to contain her giggling as he was telling his story — she really, _really_ did. But now that he's finished, raucously uninhibited laughter erupts from her.

By her second visit, Marie knew every nook and cranny of Spades Castle like the back of her hand — she even knew where the scullery maids kept their hairpins — but there remained one tiny room in a non-descript corner of the South Wing that escaped even _her_ notice.

What it might once have been used for no one can say for certain, but Arthur found the room shortly after his parents died and made it his own private retreat. A box of his mother's jewelry sits on one of the tables, next to the few existent shadowgraphs of his parents. His father was an amateur cartographer; his hand-drawn maps adorn the walls. Arthur often came to this room when he was younger to mourn his parents, to think, to cry, to study, to dream. Today, it's one of the few places he knows he and Marie can have total privacy.

Huddling together before the fire on this rainy spring day, toasting sugared Logres puffs, she'd asked him about his childhood. What he gave her, after some consideration, was the story of when he begged Yao to let him keep a pet snake in the castle.

Yao had adamantly refused. But the young, resourceful prince had somehow come into possession of a snake charming potion — usually reserved for snake hunters and performers at the bazaar — and, _somehow,_ the potion had found its way into Yao's shampoo. When snakes of all shapes and sizes began following Yao home from his trips into the city and the Parliament, Arthur claimed it was a sign from above. The _Fates _obviously wanted him to have a pet snake, and who is Yao to question them?

(Even after Yao threw out the tainted shampoo bottle, he still woke up with Nina wrapped adoringly around his arm on more than one occasion.)

Marie dramatically flops against the floor and throws an arm over her eyes, her body quivering from her laughter.

"Darling, _hush,"_ Arthur gently chides her, a grin on his face. "You mustn't be so loud."

_"Oh,"_ she airily sighs, "oh, my goodness." She takes a deep breath. "Oh, _gosh."_ Fanning herself with her hand, she clears her throat. "I'm sorry, but I can _just imagine_ the_ look _on Yao's face — him looking out the carriage window at all these snakes trailing along after him, racing to keep up, and — "

She loses herself again to laughter, her eyes squeezing shut, her cheeks turning red. Arthur catches it as well, chuckling as he watches her.

And he thinks, for all his anguish over his lost inheritance, that perhaps _this_ is what he was really born to do — to love this woman, make her laugh, keep her happy. It's the simplest thing in the world, and a far cry from ruling a kingdom, but he knows, without a doubt, he'd be content to only do this the rest of his days. That would be enough.

That would be _everything._

Suddenly, Arthur hears a noise outside the door. It sounds like the clacking of boots.

"Do you hear that?" he asks, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the door.

Marie, sobering, rubs her eyes. "Hear what?"

_"Shh."_

They freeze, neither one of them even daring to breathe as the sound grows louder, comes closer.

"Come," Arthur whispers, grabbing her hand, "quickly."

Together they scramble off the floor. He pulls her behind the antique, three-paneled folding screen sitting in the corner of the room — a birthday gift to his mother years ago from one of the noble families, hand-painted with her favorite flowers.

As he holds a finger up to his lips, Marie nods in understanding.

The door opens, and for a few tense, unbearably unhurried moments, the only sound in the room is the crackling of the fire.

And then — the door is shut, the clacking of the intruder's boots growing duller and duller, eventually fading away all together.

Arthur and Marie each let out a relieved sigh, the tension in their tightly coiled muscles melting into the jittery aftermath.

A part of Arthur believes they have nothing whatsoever to be frightened of, should they be discovered. This is the fourteenth century, after all — surely a man and a woman can be alone in the same room together without anything _scandalous_ being assumed, can't they?

But he feels the cool silver of his wedding band resting against his finger even as he thinks that, and he knows the last thing he wants or needs is to be subjected to an impromptu interrogation: _Why is the Six not with the Queen of Hearts? If Queen Kiku is visiting, why is Queen Arthur not spending his time with him? Queen Arthur has his own bodyguard, what need has he to always be in the company of the Six of Hearts?_

("Where is your wedding ring?" Alfred asked him one evening as they happened upon each other.

"I neither know nor care," Arthur lied, remembering exactly where he left it — hidden away deep in one of his dresser drawers, as he prefers not to wear it around Marie.

"But — but that's your _wedding ring!"_ Alfred wailed. "I picked that one out just for you!"

"I hardly think that plain bauble is worth your hysterics."

"Well, I know it's plain, but...that's why I picked it out for you. I knew you wouldn't've wanted anything fancy or showy."

And that was the beginning of something Arthur had never felt regarding Alfred. Something so damnably quick to arise every time he removed his ring, so persistently fierce in the way it scorched his conscience.

Somehow, he hasn't had the nerve to go without his ring since that incident.)

Marie flicks her hair out of her eyes and dusts herself off.

"I thought you said this room was off-limits to anyone who wasn't you?" She quirks an eyebrow at him.

"It is," he murmurs, thoughtfully furrowing his brows. "Whoever that was, I shall personally see to it they're given a sound thrashing."

"Well," she says, dusting him off too, though it's more an excuse to touch him than anything else, "maybe nothing as drastic as that, dear. It could have just been someone recently hired, after all. They wouldn't have known."

Arthur gives her a noncommittal grunt, his brow still uneasy.

She lightly rests her hands against his chest and smiles up at him in an effort to lighten the mood.

"I guess the best sorcerer in all of Spades — self-proclaimed, of course — doesn't know any invisibility spells, does he?"

"Mistress Terra taught me how to render immobile objects invisible, but she passed away before she could teach me how to do the same to _moving_ objects."

He glances down at her lips.

"Besides," he says, voice low and arms snaking around her waist, "there's a certain air of romance about the cloak and dagger, wouldn't you agree?"

He dips his head and kisses her cheek.

"The intrigue" — he kisses her jaw — "the secrecy" — drags his lips down the length of her neck — "the _excitement"_ — tugs at the collar of her shirt and kisses her shoulder, writing his words on her skin.

She sighs and leans against him.

"That's all well and good for adventure stories," she whispers, "but that's not what _I_ want."

"And what do you want, my love?" he asks, pulling away and smiling indulgently down at her.

"Just…you." Blushing, she glances down at his shirt, tracing a wrinkle in the fabric with her finger. "Something _real,_ with you."

His heart hammering away in his chest, he pulls her close and covers her lips with his. The world falls away when she's in his arms, taking with it every care, every responsibility, stripping away everything except her and the exquisite understanding that she's given him back his life.

But there she goes, giggling against his lips and breaking the spell completely.

"Darling, _really."_

"I'm sorry!" she exclaims. "It's just — the entire front foyer, _crawling_ with snakes, and Yao stuck _knee-deep_ in the middle of them all, and — "

_This_ is the reason she stopped kissing him? Put out, he gives her an unamused look.

"And then _you!"_ she blithely continues. "Standing there and gloating with your arms crossed over your chest. I bet the ten-year-old you was smirking. I _know_ you were."

"It's quite possible I was smirking, yes."

"And I _know_ you were just _so damn proud_ of yourself after that, weren't you?"

Arthur grins. "I believe Yao's exact words that day were _you little shit."_

"I bet you were awful as a kid."

"I certainly wasn't always good."

"Not much has changed, then."

_"Easy."_

"And now I can't wait to hear your other stories!"

She's laughing again, but he eventually manages to kiss it all out of her.

* * *

Marie is convinced what she saw Arthur do that night with the dragon wasn't magic.

Because when he lifts her hands and softly tickles kisses along the inside of her wrists — when he writes her notes and sneaks them into the pocket of her cloak, intending her to discover them only when she's halfway back to Hearts — when they are the only two people in the room but he still insists on pulling her close and whispering nothings and anythings and everythings against her hair — when they pull the old-fashioned chaise lounge out onto the balcony and curl around each other, his fingers lifting hers as he shows her the constellations —

_That's_ real magic.

* * *

Yao cheerily greets Alfred as he comes upon him in Spades Castle one day.

But all it takes is one look at his king.

"You are unwell," Yao states, the cheer from but a moment ago replaced with a steely directness.

"Nah!" Alfred looks away and brings a hand up to rub the back of his neck. "I'm fine..."

"You are _not_ fine," Yao argues. "Look at those bags under your eyes. Hideous! You have not been sleeping well. If you have been sleeping at _all,_ that is."

"Well…"

"Don't you lie to me, young man."

Alfred slouches, his shoulders drooping. It has the immediate effect of making him appear decades older than he actually is.

"It's just so hard to sleep lately because I have too many thoughts runnin' through my brain. I can't shut 'em off."

"About what?"

"About lots of things."

_"About what."_

" 'Bout the grain shortage, mostly."

"Ah. So _that_ is what you have been worrying about lately."

Alfred blinks. "You could tell?"

"Of course I could tell!" Yao laughs, delighted with Alfred's ignorance. "You are my king, I know when something's wrong."

He cups Alfred's cheek and gives it an affectionate tap. "Worrying gives you wrinkles. Wrinkles are no good. You are too handsome a boy for wrinkles."

"But if _I_ don't worry about these things, who will?"

"The answer is simple, silly boy. We shall worry about them _together."_

A smile spreads across Alfred's face at that — small at first, but blinding by the finish.

Yao smiles as well, incredibly pleased with himself. "That is better. _Now."_ Suddenly all business, he clasps his hands together. "Who have you consulted about the grain shortage?"

"Everybody I can think of — the meteorologists, the economists, the botanists, the horticulturalists. Nobody gave me any good info, though, because they were all offended that I was going to the others for help. Which doesn't make any sense — of _course_ I'm gonna to go to everyone for help. Two or five or ten heads are better than one, right?"

"I agree, but then they also say too many cooks spoil the broth."

"But — "

He doesn't speak for some time, only fixing his exhausted eyes on a certain spot behind Yao, as though he were actually staring down the grain shortage.

Yao is about to prompt his king when Alfred looks back at him and continues.

"Everybody's so worried about their stupid _pride _and their even _stupider_ reputations, but they won't focus on the real problem. What if there's no grain and the people starve? What if everybody blames the farmers? 'Cause it ain't their fault. They're doin' everything they've done in years past but nothing's working, and that's — that's really sad."

He knowingly rolls his eyes. "Oh, but who'll get the blame if the grain _does_ run out, huh? _The farmers._ Not any of the people I asked for help and who wouldn't take responsibility. _Nope."_

After a great, heavy sigh, Alfred runs a hand through his hair. "I just wish I knew what to say to everyone to make them all _realize,_ and to maybe get them all to work together for once. Because the people deserve better. They deserve a hero who's gonna look out for them and take care of them."

Yao gives him a sympathetic look, as he's seen this all before — there are never any easy answers for kings, only decisions that hurt a few less people in the end than others.

"Come along, Your Majesty," he says, laying an arm about Alfred's shoulders. "What you need is a warm bath. It will do wonders for your tense muscles and will clear your mind."

"But — "

_"No buts._ And while you are having your bath, I will write letters to some of the more, ah…_persuadable_ senators, and we won't worry — not even the tiniest bit — until we hear back from them. Agreed?"

Alfred nods. "Agreed."

(Marie bites her lip, watching as Yao leads Alfred away. She slinks against the wall and thinks of Arthur's admonishment not to sneak up on people.)

(Later, Arthur will cover her hand with his, and for the first time since she's known him, she'll pull away.)

* * *

Once, when she was a little girl, Marie stole a cluster of grapes from a neighbor's table.

It happened shortly after she first truly understood her parents were dead.

After the accident, she crafted a fantasy in her mind to avoid the awful truth. Perhaps they had simply left on holiday, though they'd been silly and neglected to tell her where they were headed or when they would return. Or perhaps their little family was moving to another city, or another kingdom altogether, and her parents had gone ahead to set up the new house for her and Will.

And their new home was going to be _so_ wonderful! It would smell like Papa's spices and Mama's flowers, and she and Will would finally have separate rooms. She imagined that would be the oddest change of all, the hardest thing to get used to — for as long as either could remember, she and her brother had always shared a single bed.

But one day, as she was sweeping the front room of their two-room cottage, she happened to glance at the front door, and it hit her.

Somehow, she knew her parents were not simply gone or away — they were _dead, _and they were never coming home. They ceased to exist, erased out of history.

The broom slipped from her fingers and clattered against the floor. Immediately thinking of Will — because she always thinks of her big brother when she's scared — she suddenly found herself very frightened.

Because one day, her dead mother's pillow will lose the scent of her still clinging to it, and as strong as Will is and as much as he loves his sister, there's nothing he can do to stop that from happening.

(When the fantasy broke, so did she.)

* * *

She doesn't even like grapes, but they were there that day, and so was she. It was genuinely that simple.

And she supposed there were reasons she shouldn't take them. There _had_ to be.

Or were there?

She'd always been told stealing was wrong, and she'd always believed it.

But was it _really?_

_(You know it is,_ a voice she pretended not to know calmly reasoned, but it was easy enough to ignore.)

What if no one found out? Would it _really_ be so bad, then? It would be like it never happened…

_(Someone always finds out.)_

_I don't have to listen to you! _she wanted to shout back. _My parents are dead and I can do whatever I want!_

In the end, no one found out she had taken the grapes.

But her brother did eventually find out about the bread, the vase, the marble cat figurine, the picture frames, and the household silver.

He tried punishing her by taking away her favorite doll and making her stand with her nose in the corner — he thought it was what his Papa might have done — but no punishment he could think of made her stop, because there was no _reason _for her stop. No _good_ reasons, at least. None of the consequences scared her.

Nothing convinced her to stop until the day her brother burst into tears, at his wits' end trying to figure out what to do with her.

"Oh, Will," she sighed, surprised, _"oh."_ She'd never seen him cry before, not even when their parents…died. _(Not left. They died. Died, died, died.)_ She'd always thought he was so strong, but to finally see him cry — and for _her_ to be the reason he's crying —

"Please don't cry," she begged him, clutching at his shirt with her chubby child's hands. "Please, please, _please…"_

The gravity of what she'd been doing this whole time finally dawned upon her. She didn't think the stealing was hurting anyone, but it was actually hurting the person she loved the most.

She ran all over the house then, dragging out the things she'd taken and hidden away, placing them in a pile in the middle of the room.

"See?" she asked, tugging his arm. "Everything's here. Everything's alright. I'll give it all back, I promise I will. Just don't cry anymore, okay?"

Even that didn't stop his tears. He used to be as expressive and talkative as herself, but after they lost their parents _(dead, dead, not gone, dead)_ he became reserved and taciturn. What if she's _ruined_ him? What if he never speaks again?

What if —

"I didn't mean to make you sad, Will," she says, nearly in tears herself. "I promise I won't ever, _ever_ be bad again."

"You're not bad," he eventually said, finally calming down. "I'm just tired. Don't know what to do." He sniffles and wipes his nose. "I want Mama and Papa back."

"Me too."

He looks her square in the eyes, his eyes sharp despite his youth. _"Don't steal anymore."_

"I won't."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Good. Because if the watchmen come and take you, I'll be alone."

Taking his hand, she lead him to their bed, made him lie down, tucked him in under the covers. She made him a cup of weak tea, petted his hair and patted his arm. She took care of him the rest of the night, and she never stole again.

* * *

"Where is Kiku?" she asked her brother the last time he and Arthur visited Hearts.

He stares at her.

"He's not with you?"

"No!" she shrieks. "I thought he was with _you!"_

She takes off running, searching frantically for her queen. She eventually finds him, sooner than she imagined she would, and safe. Having spilt tea on his robes, he went to his bedroom to change his clothes.

Unceremoniously throwing his bedroom door open, she heaves a relieved sigh when she sees him. One leg crossed over the other, halfway to slipping his shoe on his foot, he stares back.

"Sorry," she mumbles, feeling very awkward and shuffling on her feet. "I didn't mean to just barge into your private room without even knocking, but I thought I'd lost you, and I panicked."

"Ah, no. It is _I_ who am sorry." Kiku blushes before straightening and gracefully rising to stand. "It was rude of me to sneak off without telling anyone, especially you."

She shakes her head. "Don't you even _think_ of apologizing to me! You gave me a fright, yes, but — I should've been paying more attention. Please don't apologize, Kiku. _I'm_ the one who should be sorry, because — "

She blushes darkly and can't meet his eye. "Well — because — " Twisting her hands, she swallows nervously. "It's just — I've been spending so much of my time with _Arthur_ lately…"

She's wanted to come clean to him for a while, though she was sure he was already aware of the situation. Kiku, she's discovered, is clever in a way that gives the lie to his age, his remarkable intelligence coming from the simple act of observing everything around him. Spectating is an old man's sport, she once teased him, and living is the young man's.

But the real need she has to confess to him is due to this: Not that she's been spending so much time with Arthur _(there's a word for that,_ the voice tells her, and it's easy to ignore), but that she's been neglecting her duty to protect Kiku. True, he is often with Willem, but he is not Willem's responsibility.

If they weren't so close, he could easily have sent her packing by now. Actually, he could choose to let her go anytime and for any reason he pleases — he's the _queen._

How could she have been so blind all this time? Kiku holds her future in his hands and she hasn't even bothered to take her job seriously.

"You spending time with Arthur…is actually of very little concern to me."

She blinks, surprised for all she's relieved. "It is?"

"Yes. For as much time as you spend with my friend, I spend an equal amount of time with your brother. And…for the same reasons."

She glances away and nods.

_So he has been doing a little living, after all._

Her silence is the only thing giving Kiku the strength to carry on this awkward conversation.

"So — please do not worry. I do not expect you to always remain by my side when Arthur and your brother visit. Just as my friend would not wish his Nine to remain by his side while in your company, I think."

Again, she nods.

"I believe as long as I am in the company of a bodyguard — whether it is you or your brother — I am safe. You are both incredibly capable, so I know Arthur is as safe with you as he is with your brother. Also — "

Kiku folds his hands together in front of him.

"Please do not think I judge you at all. I cannot, for if I pointed a finger at you, I would have three pointing back at myself."

And Marie feels so inconsolably _dimwitted_ for all the nodding she's been doing, but she can't help it, and nods again.

"After all," Kiku says after a moment, his tone considerably lighter, "it is impolite to point at people."

She finally looks up at him, sees the small smile playing across his lips, and she smiles, too. If he were the hugging type, she'd throw her arms around him, but — well, maybe one day.

"Oh, my goodness!" she suddenly exclaims. "What if I had flung open the door and caught you changing? What if you were _naked?"_

He visibly balks. "Please do not put such calamities into my head."

She's more grateful to him than she can possibly say, but still, her hands don't stop trembling for another hour.

* * *

"Darling?"

"Mmm?"

"Are you alright?"

Marie, her arm threaded through the crook of his, leans closer to Arthur, hugs his arm a little tighter as they wander through the sprawling hedge maze of his garden together.

"I'm fine."

He watches her bite her bottom lip.

"You don't seem fine to me," he says, placing a kiss upon her temple. "Where's my girl at, eh? You seem distracted. Rather distant."

"I'm sorry." She smiles for his sake. "I don't mean to worry you. I _have_ had something on my mind lately, but it'll be okay. I'll get over it eventually."

Arthur's spine stiffens.

"You could tell me what's troubling you," he huffs, defensive. "I don't know why you feel as though you can't."

She doesn't know either, to be honest. Perhaps because to say what's _really_ bothering her would be to acknowledge it, to breathe life into it. But if it has no name – if no one catches you, if no one finds out — then it's like it never existed.

Right? Isn't that how it goes?

"Don't worry, dear, it's not that at all. I honestly do feel like I could tell you anything."

"Well?" he expectantly asks.

She comes to a halt, a thoughtful pout on her face.

"I don't like your red waistcoat," she eventually says. "Red isn't a good color on you."

He rolls his eyes.

"And the mustard yellow one washes you out."

"Marie."

"And I know you like to put that thick, brown sludge on your toast, but I can't _stand_ it and there's a reason why I won't kiss you after you've ate it."

"Are you _quite_ finished?" he asks, dropping her arm.

"Well, there's also — "

He covers her mouth with his hand, leaning in close and smiling mischievously.

"That is quite enough out of _you,_ madam," he informs her, his voice a playful murmur.

"Are you tired of me yet?" she asks when he removes his hand.

"I _ought_ to be."

"You're not, though."

"No," he says, his voice softening as he gazes down at her. "I'm not."

He blushes suddenly — and how strange it is! The way his love for her _overpowers_ him sometimes, rendering him useless at any other speech, any other thought, any other feeling except _Marie, Marie, Marie._ He feels it so violently within him sometimes he fears it's almost vulgar. He's been in love with her for some time, but the fierceness of this love still has the ability to sneak up and surprise him, still has the ability to surpass even his understanding.

He abruptly turns away and walks further down the maze, the gravel crunching under his boots.

"I shan't be done with you for another week, at least," he calls to her over his shoulder.

_"Ooh,_ a whole _week." _She runs to catch up with him. "That _is_ mighty generous of you."

He smiles smugly. "Yes, _I_ thought so."

Ahead of him now, she pivots and walks backwards, her hands clasped behind her back. "Why not make it a month, then? Or two, or three? Or six months?"

"Half a year?" He places a hand over his heart. "Darling, you _wound_ me. I never do things by halves."

"A year, then?"

He shrugs. "Make it two."

She reaches out to take his hand and lifts it up, twirling herself underneath it. "Five?"

"Ten."

"Twenty!"

"Why not — "

Keeping a firm grip on her hand, he comes to a sudden halt, tugging her back to him.

"Why not a lifetime?"

Slowly, she lifts her eyes to meet his. He quickly turns, walking away from her, but in the brief moment she held his gaze, she saw the uncertainty in his eyes, the hesitation and nervousness. She has the distinct feeling that whatever it is he's about to say or do, it's as though he's balancing on the edge of a rocky, unsteady cliff — and that she has the ability to reach out and catch him, or let him fall to his death.

He turns back to her.

"I think you ought to know that — well, that is — you must allow me to tell you — "

With an angry growl, he turns and walks away once more.

Marie sighs, her patience fraying at the thought of having a conversation with his back (how boring!). She sits on a nearby wooden bench.

"Arthur, dear — what's got you so upset? Just tell me."

When he doesn't answer, she offers: "Do you need to write it down instead of saying it?"

"Damn it, woman, I _have_ written it down!" he shouts. "A hundred times, at the very least, only to tear up the paper because nothing I wrote was ever fucking good enough!"

He takes a deep breath, and when he next speaks, his tone is softer.

"So — don't tease me. Not now. Just — listen."

"Alright," she whispers.

Arthur clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides.

"I love you," he says. "And — yes, that's as good a start as any, I suppose. I love you. And I've already decided I shall tell you that every day I am in your presence — so you'd best get used to hearing it. And you are never to laugh at me or tease me when I say it, because it's not a joke. I've never been so serious about anything in my life. Because I — I shall love you until the stars fall from the sky, and if you asked it of me, I'd tear down the sky itself for you."

He cringes at that. Far too much like cloying lines from those pale, undernourished, lovesick young men parading about and calling themselves poets.

Arthur knows he's many things — a magician, an emperor in queen's clothing, _a fool._ He's never felt so reprehensively foolish as he does now. Not only is he a fool, but a fool in love — the very worst kind of fool.

But then — for as often as he's felt his heart tumbling and tripping over itself, banging against his ribcage, he's felt hers go just as mad as his when he holds her. He's felt her shiver under his touch and for as often as she makes him smile, the days _he's_ able to make _her_ smile are the days where he feels he knows exactly what he was put on this earth to do: To be not just any fool, but _her_ fool.

And maybe being a fool wouldn't be so bad, as long as they were fools together.

That could be perfect. That could be _everything._

"I can't see your face," she suddenly says behind him, "but I know the look you've got. You're frowning over there, aren't you?"

Arthur, realizing she's right, relaxes his face.

"Smile for me?" she asks, her voice rich with golden warmth and affection. "Because I love you, too."

And he can't help but smile at her over his shoulder at that, so much so that his cheeks begin to hurt.

"I've nothing to offer you, darling," he says, finally turning to face her, holding out empty hands. "You deserve the world, but it's likely we'll never have a — a _life_ together. We may not even be granted anything more than these weekly visits."

He walks toward her, a sad look on his face. Sitting beside her on the bench, he picks up her hand.

(She's so used to the feel of his ring she doesn't even notice it against her skin anymore.)

"I have your heart, though," she says. "That's all I need."

"Will it be enough?"

She knows they've stolen away so many moments together, but they've never stopped to consider who — or what — they might be stealing from. And she'd always been taught that stealing was wrong.

_(I promise I won't ever, ever be bad again!)_

She can ignore Alfred's existence, and she can ignore the rules, but what she _can't_ ignore is the way Arthur makes her feel. Her love for him is her only excuse, and she's clear-headed enough to realize that it's a poor excuse at best and a reason to be hanged as a traitor at worst — but she loves him breathlessly, endlessly, and wouldn't want to live in a world without him. Even if that world _is_ full of rules and secrecy and wasteful decorum, _still_ — it's a better world with him in it.

And because of that, none of the consequences scare her.

"It's enough," she promises, and truly believes. "We'll _make_ it enough, I promise."

She brings her hands up to hold his face, brings his lips to hers for a long, slow, burning kiss. Her heart clenches in her chest over him, and how she's ever going to survive this — survive _him_ — she doesn't know, but neither does she care.

(When this fantasy eventually breaks, so will she.)

* * *

Even if he had her consent, Arthur would never perform magic on her. It affects everyone differently, he explains, caster and receiver alike. He lost random memories when he was first practicing, though he was lucky and eventually regained them all; to her everlasting regret, there were some of her memories Mistress Terra never regained.

Still, Marie continues to think of what they have together — what he does to her, how he's invaded her mind, body and soul — as magic.

But magic, of all kinds, is forbidden.

* * *

A thousand years ago, the four kingdoms were engulfed in a world war — Spades and Hearts pitted against Diamonds and Clubs.

An entire generation of men and women were wiped out. More than one village lost enough young people to render the assembly rooms, that traditional meeting place of village youth, desolate and obsolete for the next fifteen years.

It just so happened that the magic users — a quiet class of people who preferred to keep to themselves, and who were conveniently outnumbered by the other groups of warriors — were the easiest target to pin the blame for the war on, despite the many acts of heroism attributed to them during the war.

Thus was magic deemed illegal, from now until the end of days, under penalty of death. The witches and sorcerers who were not rounded up and executed during the initial purge went into hiding, to live out the rest of their days in secrecy and unsympathetic scrutiny. And —

Hush now. It's best not to speak of such things. You don't know who might be listening, who they might tell.

Close up those shutters on the window just to be safe. Can't take any chances.

(Better leave off here. Talking about such things shames the innocent, makes the honorable foolhardy, and turns the wise insipid.)

* * *

Marie shifts uncomfortably on the hard wooden bench beneath her.

"Should've brought pillows to sit on," she mutters.

"This thing gonna be any good?" Willem asks beside her, picking up a program and glancing over it.

Marie takes a deep breath of the crisp navy-night air and watches, fascinated, as the actors up on the stage scurry about, carrying out last-minute preparations before tonight's show.

"I guess we'll find out," she says. "The show's gotten really good reviews. Feli can't stop talking about it — that's how I first heard about it."

They don't know it, but in two centuries' time the era Marie and Willem are currently living in will be known as Hearts' cultural renaissance, and the play they are about to see — _The Life and Death of Hieronymus de Vries_ — will be revered as a classic of the stage. As much as Kiku laments their lost princesses and the prodigal sons and daughters who have yet to return to their homeland, one day all the youth of the four kingdoms will flock to Hearts in their pursuit of bohemian ideals.

Marie drags her eyes away from an actor wearing a dashing blue cape (not to mention an eye patch) on the makeshift stage and looks out across their hometown's village square. More and more people are arriving, filling up the narrow rows of benches. She shivers with excitement as the audience buzzes around them, as the torches flicker and hum. There's magic in the air tonight.

"I wouldn't worry too much, brother dear," she says. "I bet the show will be amazing. I mean, it's written by _Cesare Cagliostro,_ so…"

"That supposta mean somethin'?"

She blinks. "You've at least heard of him, right?"

"Nope."

"Haven't you ever seen _A Patch of Cornflower Blue? _Or _Giacomo's Daughter?"_

He shakes his head.

_"Honestly,_ Will, I can't take you _anywhere."_ She takes the program from him, quickly looking it over and recognizing some of the actors' and actresses' names. _"Yes,_ it's supposed to mean something. He's _wonderful._ Just — the way he writes is so beautiful, and his plots, and his _heroes — "_

She dreamily sighs.

Willem rolls his eyes. "Alright."

"He's just_ amazing._ He's the best playwright Hearts has ever had."

"You read everything ever written in Hearts?"

"Well — _no."_

"Don't know for sure he's the best, then."

She lightly pushes at his arm. "Shut up."

Willem grunts in an amused way, taking from his coat pocket his pipe and a match. Before he strikes the match, he rolls it contemplatively between his fingers.

"Sis."

"Mmm?"

"Thanks for comin' out with me tonight."

She leans against him and briefly rests her head on his shoulder. "Aw, you're welcome."

"Been thinkin' 'bout a lotta things."

So the roles are reversed now, she sees — she's always relied on him, but now _he's_ relying on _her._ "Yeah? Like what?"

"Like — " He strikes the match and watches it burn. "Like Kiku."

_"Some-_bod_-y's_ in _lo-ve,"_ she sings, grinning and lightly poking at his cheek.

He smiles, dipping his head and hiding behind his long scarf. "Yeah."

"I'm so happy for you!" Marie squeals, dancing in her seat. "I can't remember the last time you were so serious about someone."

"Been a while. Nothin' like this, though. Kiku's different."

He lights another match. For as small a flame as it is, it glows brilliantly before quietly fading away.

"Is it supposta hurt? Caring about someone so much, I mean."

"Well…"

He hunches over and rests his forearms on his thighs, lighting another match.

" 'Specially when we're apart. Like a weight in my chest. Feels like it's gonna pull me down so low I couldn't get back up again."

"Oh, I know what you mean," she sighs, thinking of Arthur. "Believe me."

He bolts upward and looks her in the eye. "He treatin' you right?"

"Yes."

" 'Cause he _loves_ you."

"Yes."

Satisfied, Willem visibly relaxes. "Good. Can't ask for more'n that. Don't wanna commit regicide."

She laughs and reaches out to rub his back.

"It's no good, though."

"What's no good?"

"Takin' a queen away from a king. All that superstitious shit."

She pulls her hand away. "Oh."

"At the same time," Willem hastens to add, "Kiku didn't ask to be royalty. Didn't ask to get married, either. It's not _fair._ He didn't — "

"Will." She glances around them and places a hand on his arm. "Not so loud. People are staring."

He hunches over again. "Sorry."

"It's alright. I feel the same way." She twists her hands in her lap, clutching at the fabric of her dress and crumpling it without even noticing. "I get worked up about it, too, sometimes, because you're right — it's _not_ fair."

_And it's not ever going to be,_ she suddenly thinks, a chill whispering down her spine at the realization.

Willem pulls out another match, actually lighting his pipe this time.

"Just want Kiku to be happy," he eventually says, slowly releasing a puff of smoke. "Kid deserves it."

"Yes," she readily agrees, "he does. He's _such_ a good man."

"I know it's all…_wrong, _but I want 'im to be happy. What's so bad about that?"

_Is it worth it, though? A life of constant disappointment…_

_Is Arthur worth it?_

Her final decision, as the curtain on the stage is pulled away and the trumpets announce the entrance of the Chorus, is _yes._ Because none of them are seeking to _hurt_ anyone — all the four of them want is just to find some shred of happiness in these twisted, knotted roads the Fates have set them upon.

"Don't worry, Will," she says, her voice barely audible over the audience's clapping. "Everything will work out. You'll see."

* * *

This play, the Chorus explains, is about a man no one knows much about.

He might have existed once, or he might not. All the humble author has to go on is his name, recorded in a hotel register several hundred years ago, where he — or someone merely assuming an identity — scribbled down his age as being 100. And his destination?

_L'Enfer._

And that, dear friends, was _far_ too tantalizing an idea to walk away from, and so the author hopes you enjoy tonight's show.

Spellbound, the audience titters in excited anticipation, the wooden benches creaking as they shift in their seats.

"The main character has the same last name as us," Marie whispers to Willem as they watch the actors assemble on stage for the first act. "If he really existed, do you think we're related?"

_"Shh,"_ Willem curtly orders, watching the actors with rapt attention.

* * *

The first act of the play is full of comedy; the second, romance.

Hieronymus is a wealthy prince who has fallen in love with Eustacia, the wife of one of his poor tenants. As a result of their affair, she becomes pregnant. To save both their honor and to provide them an opportunity to marry, Hieronymus hatches a dastardly plan to get rid of her husband: He shall call the loyal, unsuspecting Trajan off to fight in the war, ordering him to the frontlines where he is sure to encounter heavy fighting and be killed.

At the conclusion of the third act, Hieronymus' distant cousin and soothsayer, Sebastian, pays him a visit.

(Sebastian is played by the actor wearing the eye patch in the blue cape.

Marie sighs, and Willem lightly pushes at her arm.

_"Quit it,"_ he orders.)

"My Prince, have you have heard the latest gossip?"

"What care I for idle gossip, Seb?" Hieronymus asks, gleefully hopping off the stage and walking amongst the crowd. "I've no time for your stories. That fool Trajan is dead and I am finally able to ask the fair Eustacia for her hand, though I've no doubt of her accepting me." Hieronymus gives the audience a knowing look and heartily laughs. "I was on my way to her cottage just now when you came upon me, so if you'll excuse me — "

"It concerns two men in the town," Sebastian continues, heroically undeterred even as Hieronymus dramatically huffs and rolls his eye, plopping down on a bench next to a member of the audience.

"One man is rich, the other poor. The rich man owns a large number of sheep, but the poor man owned nothing save one little lamb he bought. He raised it, loved it, and eventually couldn't bring himself to slaughter it."

"You're going to have to do a lot better than some dumb, ugly sheep to get the fair Eustacia off my mind!" Hieronymus cries, wrapping a jovial arm around his neighbor as though they were drinking buddies.

"The time came, my Prince, when the rich man needed to entertain a traveler from a foreign land, but he refused to slaughter one of his own sheep for the evening meal. Instead, he stole the poor man's lamb and slaughtered _it."_

Hieronymus rises from his seat.

"Seb — _can_ this be _true?"_ he asks, horrified. "Who is the rich man? Come, no more stories. Reveal his name. Tell me who he is at _once_ so that I might have him put to death. To do such a ghastly, _cruel_ thing and have no pity — "

_"You are the man!"_ Sebastian cries, lifting his staff — and pointing it straight at Marie.

She gasps, her eyes widening with shock.

A few moments pass before she realizes the actor playing Hieronymus — Sebastian's intended target — was standing directly behind her.

And yet —

"Listen well, _Prince,"_ Sebastian darkly intones, "for this is what the Fates have to say regarding your treacherous behavior! 'It was _We_ who anointed you ruler over all the land — it was _We_ who delivered you out of the hands of your enemies. And yet you resent Us and throw Our gifts back at Us by doing what is evil in Our eyes! You were given _everything_ — every possible comfort was given to you, you wanted for _nothing_ — and yet even _this_ was not enough for your insatiable greed. You struck down an innocent man for your own pleasure, so that you could take his wife as your own.'"

(Alfred, with the shadows under his eyes and the weight of the kingdom on his young shoulders — )

"'Out of your own household We shall bring calamity on you,'" Sebastian continues, ominously raising his arms. "'What you did, you did in secret, but We will have Our revenge in broad daylight, before _all_ the kingdom.'"

And then, in a flash of smoke, Sebastian disappears.

Hieronymus rushes back onto the stage, calls out for him, but it's too late. The third act of the play ends with three figures cloaked in black emerging from the darkness and surrounding the weeping Hieronymus — the Fates are come to drag him down to l'Enfer.

The audience erupts into riotous applause, but as soon as the curtain is drawn, Marie turns to her brother.

"I want to leave."

He furrows his brow. "It's just startin' to get good."

_"Please,_ Will," she begs, clutching his arm. "I'm sorry — I'll make it up to you, I promise. I just don't feel very well, all of a sudden."

Worry crosses his face as he looks her over.

"Alright," he eventually says, nodding. Gently grabbing her elbow to support her, he leads her out of the audience as the crowd continues to go wild around them.

* * *

It is one thing to fall in love with someone. It is quite another to feel as though one is drowning, and continuously being denied air; to worship, yet constantly be denied even the briefest glimpse of Paradise.

"I deserve more than to just be the Queen's mistress," she explained to him one night as she disengaged herself from his arms and his ravenous kisses, her hair a mess, her lips kiss-swollen, her breath coming out of her in short, gasping pants.

And Arthur would be a cad if he didn't agree — the farthest his lips have ever traveled is the swell of her breasts, the highest his hands have ever roamed is her thigh. He _knows_ she deserves more; he'd never treat her so callously as to devalue her and turn her into just another royal mistress.

But he is burning, aching to _show_ her how he loves her. Flowers and kisses and whispers so hushed and delicate you'd think they'd be your last are all fine and good, but he feels it's not enough. He wants to hide away between the sheets with her, worship her or desecrate her — whichever she prefers — and make her _feel_ his love, somehow. Show her how utterly bound and devoted to her he is, and always shall be.

So Arthur contents himself waiting for the day when —

When what, exactly?

(In a strange way that breaks his heart so badly he can feel the pieces splintering, a part of him hopes she's not taking their relationship as seriously as he is. Because every time he's faced with the stark reality of their situation, parts of him wither and die. Parts that even Marie, with all her smiles and her kisses — she, of _all_ people — can't resurrect.)

* * *

On his way to his library one afternoon, Alfred calls out to him, but Arthur ignores it and continues walking.

Alfred calls out his name a second time, and when Arthur _still_ does not acknowledge him, Alfred, in a rare fit of anger, comes up to him and grabs his arm.

"What _are_ you doing?" Arthur demands, roughly shrugging out of Alfred's grip and shoving him away.

"I need to talk to you about something."

"Go talk to a wall."

"It's about Hearts."

The habitual sneer Arthur wears whilst in Alfred's presence slips, but he recovers quickly.

"…what about Hearts?"

"It's just — _look._ I've been thinkin' — "

"Wonders never cease."

Alfred's mouth forms a tight line.

"Okay, that's enough of that," he says, knife's edge to his voice. "You can be such an _ass_ sometimes, you know that?"

"Pity," Arthur says, checking his cufflinks. "Only sometimes?"

"You know, I don't know what makes you think you're _so special_ that you can treat people like _dirt_ under your boots."

"Not everyone, Alfred. Only _you."_

Sometimes, it amazes even Arthur that he's capable of such tender feelings toward some people — he loves Marie, thinks of Kiku like a brother, enjoys Willem's quiet companionship, and relies on Yao more than he'll ever let on. Yet he's also capable of such _blinding hatred,_ as though there were two people warring within him.

(He sometimes wonders: Which one is the real Arthur?)

"You're not the only one who got a raw deal outta all this," Alfred quietly says, leaning against the narrow windowsill. "I'm married to you, too, you know."

For the first time, Arthur considers this — and it renders him speechless.

He had always firmly believed Alfred had usurped the throne to fulfill his own heroic fantasies. That Alfred had gained everything he could have possibly wanted by taking the throne. For there was nothing for a poor peasant boy to _lose_ by taking the throne, surely. Whatever plans Alfred might have had for his life before he became king — _if_ he had any — they could never compare to what he has now.

Arthur thinks of this marriage as a prison, but surely — surely Alfred does not see it the same way?

He _can't._ It's impossible.

And suddenly, Arthur is terrified that every awful notion he's ever had about Alfred might be a lie.

"You listen here," Arthur snarls, pointing a finger in Alfred's face. "This is _my_ prison, this is _my_ hatred, this marriage is the twisting, rotting thorn in _my_ side. I absolutely refuse to let you steal all this from me as well."

Arthur backs away and narrows his eyes.

_"I_ am the one who lost everything, you prat — not you. So don't insult me by feeling sorry for yourself."

Alfred looks at him just long enough for Arthur to feel uncomfortable. The saddest look Arthur has ever seen mars Alfred's face, and — why are there bags under his eyes? What could possibly be keeping _him_ from sleeping?

Alfred, dejected, lets his eyes fall to the ground.

"Don't know why I expected you to care," he mutters. "You have to have a heart to have feelings."

"Why, you little _pissant — "_

"Look," Alfred tiredly continues, looking up at him. "I'm sorry I grabbed your like that earlier, okay?"

Arthur rubs his eyes, holds the bridge of his nose. "Just say what you have to say, Alfred. I'm terribly bored with this conversation."

"It's just that you spend so much time over there in Hearts, and their Queen spends a lot of time over here..."

"Yes? And? Your powers of observation astound, as always."

"Well, on the one hand, it's not that big a deal. I'm glad there's at least _somebody_ you talk to, _someone_ you hang out with. But the point is — it's all _personal._ We have no _political_ relationship with them."

"Make one, then."

"It ain't that easy."

"Oh, _isn't it."_

"You should know that better than anyone!" Alfred exclaims, shrugging helplessly and gesturing toward Arthur. "The senators would never approve an alliance because we don't have anything to gain by it. It'd be great for them, sure, because our economy is so good, but — "

"There was an alliance before," Arthur interrupts, desperation creeping into his voice despite his best efforts. "During the Great War. There could be another."

Alfred sighs. "Look, dude, I've looked at it from every angle I can think of, and it makes me feel bad to say it, but an official alliance with them would only drag us down. They ain't got nothin' to offer us. And Francis says if that's the case, then it looks _really bad_ for the two queens to hang out so much together."

"Oh," Arthur scoffs, _"well._ If Francis says it, then it simply _must_ be true."

"Yeah, actually," Alfred defensively huffs, proudly straightening his back, "that _is_ what I think."

"Then you're an even bigger idiot than I thought."

"Why do you dislike him so much, anyway?"

"What reason should _anyone_ with half a brain need to dislike that obnoxious, perverted clown?"

_"Who else am I supposed to talk to?"_ Alfred shouts, his voice echoing throughout the hallway, startling the birds at the window into flight. Their shadows flicker throughout the corridor. "You know _all about_ this stuff, but you won't friggin' _teach_ me anything!"

"Calm _down._ You embarrass yourself."

Raking a hand through his hair, Alfred makes a frustrated noise. "Have you just ever been so desperate for something you'd do almost anything? Anything at all?"

Arthur feels he could laugh at that — he _really _could. "You've no idea."

"It gets so hard sometimes because I just feel like an idiot! Half the senators and the nobles just think I'm some dumb-ass farm boy who can't learn anything, and the other half assume I've had some kind of training or something. But I can't just _give up._ Everybody's depending on me, and it's my duty to — "

"Don't you _dare_ talk to me of duty," Arthur snarls, reaching out to shake Alfred by the lapels of his jacket, "not when — "

_Not when you're the one who stole mine from me,_ Arthur almost says, but his wedding band, glinting in the sunlight, catches his eye.

He shoves Alfred against the wall and stalks away, the ghost of his ancestor screaming in his ears. He knows she's trying to warn him about something, but he can't hear her over the sound of the blood pounding in his ears.

* * *

A week later, the book in Arthur's hands slips from his fingers when Marie suddenly straddles him on the sofa and indulgently drapes herself over him with an insensible feline sensibility. His hands travel up her back as she sets about turning both of them drunk off the warmth of sunlit afternoon kisses, her hair falling about her face and shielding the two of them away from the rest of the world.

She's a part of him, he knows — the very best part of him. To ever lose her would be to die himself. Knowing as he does that they shall always eventually be reunited, the days they spend out of each other's company are still only barely tolerable.

But — to be parted from her forever? Arthur thinks of every sleight of the Fates' hands that brought him to this moment, to _her._ What if she had never come into his life at all? Arthur doesn't know what he would do, and a desperate surge of love for her wells up in his heart. He loves her more than his own life — she _is_ his life.

And just because that blasted ancestor of his missed _her_ chance at love, there's no reason why Arthur should miss his.

"Come away with me," he murmurs against her lips.

She chuckles lazily, nuzzling her nose against his. "That depends on where we're going, sir."

"Anywhere."

Suddenly overtaken with a new sense of determination, he sits up straighter on the sofa, his hands traveling down to hold her hips and a serious expression on his face.

"Run away with me," he implores her, his eyes dancing, half-mad.

Uncertain, she places her hands lightly on his chest. "Arthur…"

"I'm serious."

She opens her mouth, but no words come out. She quickly snaps her mouth shut and looks away.

And he didn't expect her to actually fall into his arms and immediately say yes — but her hesitation hurts, more than he thought it might. He's noticed she's been pulling away from him more and more. It's becoming easier for her to slip out of his grasp, like silk falling from his fingertips. He loves her and drinks deeply of her, only to lose her.

"I could always just steal you away," he tries.

"You could dress up like a highwayman," she offers, fiddling with his cravat. "You could wear a mask and throw me into your carriage."

"Whisk you off to one of my many towers in the forest."

She raises an eyebrow. "You have towers in the forest?"

"But of course. Perfect for hiding away all the young maidens."

She laughs. "I don't think my hair's long enough for this nefarious plan of yours, sir."

"Then I shall simply have to stay with you in the tower, madam, until your hair _is_ long enough."

He wraps his hands around her neck and pulls her to him, resting their foreheads together.

"I love you," he softly says, wondering how many times he's said it to her and hoping it hasn't yet lost its meaning, hoping it never does.

"I know you do," she quietly returns. "And I love you."

"Only imagine it, my love — we could go anywhere and do anything we pleased. We could be whoever we wished to be for the rest of our days."

"That's just it, though." She leans away, her voice sadly gentle as she continues: "We'd always be ourselves. We'd always be the two who ran away, and people wouldn't take kindly to the idea of us running away for love. What if — "

_You are the man!_

"What if we were only remembered as horrible people?"

"What need have _we_ to worry about what other people think? The majority of people in this world are loutish buffoons, as selfish and narrow-minded as they are gauche. And they don't know us, darling. Not truly."

"I don't want us to be the Queen and the Six who ran away and turned their backs on their duties to their countries."

And there's that word again — _duty._ Arthur is sick of hearing it. It seems to mean so damn much to everyone when he couldn't care less. To him, it means nothing. An empty word — as empty as his life would be without her, the only real duty he feels he has.

"If duty means _so bloody much_ to you," he sneers, and it feels hateful and wrong when it's directed toward her, "I wonder why you aren't with Kiku, then."

Her eyes widen in stunned disbelief.

"Don't do that," she coldly snaps, quickly rolling off him. "Don't be ugly."

She goes to stand before the tall window, wrapping her arms tightly around herself.

"I'm sorry, love," Arthur sighs. "I didn't mean it. Forgive me?"

"You can't ask me that. I need you to promise me you won't ever ask me to do that again."

"Darling?"

_"Promise me."_

The grandfather clock chimes, announcing the hour.

"That," Arthur slowly confesses, "is something I cannot promise you. You know I would promise you anything, but that is a promise I cannot make."

Marie closes her eyes and sighs. She'd thought as much.

He rises from the sofa and comes up behind her, wrapping his arms around her.

"I'm tired of living only half a life with you, darling. I want a full life — a _real _life."

"That's what I want, too," she whispers. "But it's an impossible dream. This — "

_There's a word for what this is. Call it what it really is._

" — this _affair _is all we can ever hope to have."

"Is it?" he asks, resting his lips against the curve of her neck.

"You know the Parliament would never grant you a divorce."

"Then if the only option left was to run away — "

"Arthur, that's — "

_There's a word for that, too._

" — that's selfish."

And for all the suffocating weight that lifts from her upon finally having the courage to call these things what they _truly_ are, the weight of the subsequent shame is almost too much to bear.

Arthur drops his arms from around her and backs away. "I see nothing selfish in simply wanting to make each other happy."

"To leave everything and everyone we know, everyone who's depending on us?"

"Stop worrying about everyone else!" Arthur shouts, as irritated with her argument as he is with the merit behind it. "It's not as though the world might end if we disappeared."

She turns to face him. "Would you have Kiku and Will run away, too? What if everyone gave up and ran away from their responsibilities whenever things weren't going their way? There are things that are bigger than us, even though I don't want to believe it. But that doesn't make it any less true."

Biting her lip, she looks at the ground.

"My duty to protect Kiku, for instance," she continues. "I would never forgive myself if something happened to him and I wasn't there to stop it."

She walks to him and takes his hands in hers.

"Don't think I don't want us to run away," she whispers. "I want everything for us. I want to open up a bakery, just like my Papa, and come home to you at the end of the day. I want us to go out into town or to the bazaar or to one of the Shrines and I want us to hold hands and not be afraid of being seen. I want us to have a cat." She reaches up to ruffle his hair. "I want to wake up next to you and laugh at your messy hair, because I bet it looks awful in the mornings, doesn't it?"

"Dreadful," he agrees.

She smiles up at him. "I _knew _it."

As she pulls her hand away, he takes it and holds it over his heart.

"But, dear — the more I pull you away from Alfred — "

_"Don't."_

" — the more your kingdom suffers, and mine, too. Kiku's been pulled away from Ludwig, and it's all because of my brother, and you only took him on because of me."

She brings both of her hands up to gently hold his face, stroke his sharp cheekbones with her thumbs. She looks into his eyes, her own impossibly sad.

"Any way you look at it, it — it's just no good."

"No," he mutters as he grabs her wrists, dread coming over him.

"You know I love you, but — "

He walks away from her. _"No."_

Coming back to the sofa, Arthur sinks down onto the arm.

"It makes a…logical kind of sense to call it off, doesn't it?" she brokenly asks. "If neither of us is happy with what we have…but if there's no way for us to get what we want…"

"So why did — why did you — "

_Why did you make me fall in love with you._

_Why did I make you fall in love with me._

He feels numb, because he knows she's right. So terribly, awfully right.

He thinks of the day they spent in the hedge maze, the day he first told her he loved her. He said it himself: They would more than likely never have a life together. But perhaps, in the rush of passion, in his tremendous need to have her know _exactly_ how he felt about her — to hear her say it back to him, and have that moment to cherish when he was at his loneliest — he thought they could somehow cheat their destiny by acknowledging its presence out loud, looking it in the eye and thus preventing it from sneaking up on them.

Perhaps in his warning her, he forgot to heed his own warning.

"We both knew, didn't we?" he softly asks, looking up at her with pained eyes. "We said it would be enough, but even in the beginning — we knew."

She nods, her eyes welling with tears. "We did."

Arthur swallows thickly. "How foolish we were."

"I just really, really fell in love with you, is all," she whispers, a tear rolling down her cheek. "And — I wanted — I wanted — "

She covers her face with her hands as she cries. Arthur comes up to her, takes her hands in his and kisses her palms before pulling her to him.

"I'm sorry," she brokenly sobs, burying her face in his chest. "I love you _so much,_ Arthur. You have to believe that."

"I do." His breath painfully catches in his throat. "And I love you. That shall never change, darling. I swear it."

"Please don't hate me."

Despite everything, he chuckles. "I could never hate you, darling."

"I don't — " She clutches the back of his shirt. "I don't want to say goodbye, though."

"Don't, then. Stay with me until your visit is over."

She nods, and he pulls away enough to gaze at her face.

He trails a finger down her cheek.

"Were I king, as I ought to have been, I would have found you, darling, and made you my queen."

* * *

Arthur and Willem stop visiting Hearts.

Arthur lets Alfred believe it was his decision.

* * *

_Marie misses your company,_ Kiku writes, _as do I. Growing up as I did — sheltered within my family's mansion, secluded from all society, never having any friends...well, I can say I did not expect to feel so acutely the loss of the one I eventually did acquire._

_Would it be asking too much to ask you to please tell Willem — _

A sizeable part of Kiku's letter is crossed out, ugly black blots marring the otherwise elegant curves of Kiku's handwriting.

_Please tell him the lack of his presence is felt as well._

* * *

Arthur doesn't sleep.

It's hard enough to try and keep his mind preoccupied throughout the day — anything to keep his mind off _her_ — but what he dreads beyond anything are the moments after he's first laid his head on his pillow.

For that's when his traitorous mind calls up images of her, her lips, her hand in his. His knuckles brushing against her cheeks, her laugh, the way his heart leapt in his chest when he looked at her and knew her heart was doing the exact same thing. When he dreams, he dreams of her, standing by the beach, waiting for him. More often than not Arthur falls asleep over his desk in his library, his head resting atop his letters and books, than he does in his inviting, but treacherous, bed.

One morning, about a month after the decision to break things off between them, Arthur awakens from a fitful sleep in his favorite armchair, his shoulders sore and his neck stiff. He gets to his feet and stretches, pours some water out of his pitcher, splashes his face.

Going to the window, Arthur looks down into his garden and sees Willem there, taking care of Marie and Kiku's flowers. Neither one of them had the heart to remove them.

("Do you not miss him?" he once asked Willem.

Willem had said nothing, only continued pulling up weeds.

And then: "Flowers need sun and open air to grow," he warns. "Can't keep 'em hidden away forever."

He handed Arthur a yellow tulip, looked after it longingly once it was in Arthur's hand.

"Yes," Willem said, "I miss him.")

_We are Queens,_ Kiku once told him. _We are not given any happiness in this life; we must find it where we can._

And Queen Arthur of Spades decides, at that moment, to go find his happiness.

* * *

Arthur changes into his plainest clothes, saddles Ifrit, and, without telling a single soul of his intentions, rides all morning toward Hearts.

It's midmorning when he finally takes pity on the poor creature. Stopping at an inn in a village not too far from Hearts Castle, Arthur lets Ifrit rest in the stables while he orders something to eat and drink.

Just as he sits down at an ill-kept booth with a plate of bread and cheese, the inn's front door slams open and two men rush inside.

"Is there a healer here?" one shouts, his words laced with panic.

"No," the innkeeper sighs, irritated. "People make that mistake all the time. The healer's next door."

The first man runs to get the healer, while the other — a bearded, portly fellow — stays behind, panting for breath.

"What's going on?" the innkeeper asks, walking out from behind the bar and handing the man a glass of water.

The man accepts it, gulping it down. Sighing loudly after he's emptied the glass of every drop, he returns it to the innkeeper.

"Someone's been hurt," he breaths, sniffling and rubbing his nose. "An arrow — to the chest. Real bad — blood everywhere."

"What happened?" a hunter asks from a table in the corner. "And where?"

"Near the river, by the bridge. Someone tried — to assassinate — the Queen."

His bread and cheese barely touched, Arthur's head snaps up.

"By the Fates!" the innkeeper gasps. "Is the Queen alright?"

"Yes," the bearded man says, nodding. "His bodyguard — took the arrow — for him."

Arthur nearly knocks the man and the innkeeper over in his mad dash out the door.

* * *

There's already a crowd gathered by the time he arrives, and Arthur immediately fears he's too late, as it's so eerily quiet — not a hint of wind rustling in the trees, no children shouting or laughing.

Pushing his way through the crowd, he comes upon the grim scene: Marie lying in a pool of her own blood, the arrow still stuck in her chest. Kiku kneels beside her, holding her hand in both of his own.

When Kiku looks up and sees Arthur, he smiles down at her.

"Marie," he gently says, trying to stay calm for her sake, "Arthur is here."

With a great effort, she turns her head, and when she sees him for herself, she tries to smile for him. It looks more like a grimace.

Arthur falls to his knees beside her, her blood staining his trousers.

"Oh, _darling,"_ he breathes. He looks her over, his hands hovering over her body, unsure where to place them. "My poor, poor darling..."

"You're here," she sighs, the air rattling in her lungs. It sounds nothing like girl who used to playfully scold him, the girl who would run her hands through his hair and whisper she loved him. It sounds more like a child shaking a broken toy.

He picks up her hand and kisses the back of it, his other hand brushing her hair from her face. "Of _course_ I'm here, darling. I was on my way to see you, to tell you — hell if I know, actually. All I know is I couldn't bear being without you a moment longer."

"I wanted to see you." She squeezes her eyes shut, each word requiring more effort than the previous. "I missed you."

"And I you," he assures her, kissing her forehead. "So very, very much."

_"Where_ the _hell_ is the healer?" a deep voice growls behind them.

Kiku and Arthur turn to find Willem, who had faithfully followed his queen, staring at the scene before him in shaking, open-mouthed disbelief.

"Get a healer," he gruffly orders to no one in particular, his eyes fixed on his sister. _"Now."_

Kiku hurriedly moves away, Willem taking his place beside his sister.

"We sent some men to get the healer," Kiku explains to Arthur, kneeling beside him, his eyes never leaving Marie. "What is taking so long?"

"I — I have no idea," Arthur says, looking on as Willem holds his little sister's face in his large hands.

"There was a chemist nearby — he gave her something to numb the pain."

"Why has the arrow not been removed?"

"The chemist said he believed if we removed it, it would kill her instantly."

"So we just let her _bleed out_ and _suffer?"_ Arthur incredulously whispers.

"I apologize, Arthur, I — " Kiku's trembling fingers, wet with her blood, helplessly clutch at the fabric of Marie's trousers. "I did not know what to do — "

Marie whimpers, writhing as though she would pull herself up off the ground. Willem holds her shoulders down until she stops resisting.

"Shh," he whispers, petting her hair to soothe her. "I'm here, Sis. Don't cry."

"It — it doesn't hurt," she manages to say, "at least — I don't think it does? I don't know."

_"Shh."_

"Will," she whispers, shaking, tears rolling down her cheeks, "I'm _scared."_

She looks at Arthur. "No white magic?"

His heart clenches at the hopeful lift of her eyebrows, and all he can do is squeeze her hand tighter.

* * *

The healer _does_ come, but it's too late.

As Willem cradles his sister's limp body in his arms, Arthur tackles the healer to the ground and viciously buries his fists in the man's face.

He only relents when Kiku manages to pry him off the man.

* * *

Her body — _not her,_ Arthur lies to himself, _my girl smiles and laughs and tells me when I'm being ridiculous_ — lies in state in the chapel of Hearts Castle. She rests within a glass coffin, surrounded in death by the tulips she so adored in life.

Willem and Arthur stay with her for hours at a time. Kiku tries to remind them to eat, _she would want you to rest, I promise no harm shall come to her, the guards shall make sure of it,_ but it's always a losing battle, as both Willem and Arthur are thinking the same thing: If they couldn't protect her while she was alive, they will watch over her as her body _(not her, not her)_ makes the journey to its final resting place.

"When she was little," Willem says one evening, "our parents called her Firefly."

Arthur, his face blank, tears his eyes away from Marie's pale cheek to look at him.

"Her smile was so bright," Willem explains.

He gestures toward the coffin. "Hard to think _that_ used to be my sister."

He swallows.

"I _used _to have a sister. And now I...don't have anyone."

"You have Kiku," Arthur reminds him.

Willem shakes his head. "Not the same thing."

* * *

Ludwig wishes to hold a state funeral for her, but Willem declines the offer, saying his sister would have preferred a more private one. Everyone in the employ of Hearts Castle is given the day off to pay their respects, and friends and acquaintances from all across the years of her short life attend.

Arthur and Willem are the last to walk away, neither of them ready to give her up entirely just yet.

They each wince when the gravedigger begins shoveling dirt into the grave.

* * *

Willem, who rode to the funeral in the royal coach with Arthur and Alfred, requests to stay behind in Hearts once it's all over. Arthur tells him to spend as much time as he wants or needs in his homeland, and that he will completely understand if Willem decides not to return and gives up his position as the Nine of Spades.

Arthur disinterestedly stares out the window as he and Alfred ride back to Spades.

"She always seemed so nice," Alfred suddenly says, breaking the ghostly silence. "Gosh. It's so weird that she's gone. That someone you used to know isn't here anymore."

Arthur sighs, unable to arouse any annoyance, any rage, any bitterness at all in his heart toward Alfred. How is he ever to feel anything again, now that the woman he loves _(loved, loved, you no longer love, you have loved)_ has taken his heart six feet underground with her?

"You knew her better than I did, though," Alfred continues. "I only ever really saw her, sometimes, when Kiku would visit. What was she like?"

"She was — "

A painful lump rises in Arthur's throat and for some wretched moments he finds it impossible to breathe.

"I'm so sorry," Alfred quietly says. "I know how close you and Kiku were. I shouldn't have made such a big deal out of you two seein' each other so often. Maybe then you could've spent more time with her before it happened."

"Stop," Arthur softly orders, holding up his hand. "Alfred, just — _stop."_

_If only I hadn't driven Kiku from Ludwig, _Arthur thinks, barely mustering the strength for thought at all. _If Hearts hadn't begun to suffer, that assassin would never have come. If only I had learnt white magic. If only —_

"This is my fault," he whispers.

"Um, say what?"

_I would do anything to change all this. Anything at all._

The coach brings them within view of the Time Shrine.

_Whatever it took to set things right and bring her back — Fates above, I swear I would do it._

The bells within the shrine ring out, announcing the hour.

"Driver!" Arthur suddenly shouts, banging his fist on the roof of the coach. _"Driver!_ Stop the coach!"

Before their driver even manages to completely bring the horses to a halt, Arthur opens the door and leaps out of coach.

A bewildered Alfred leans out and calls after Arthur, but Arthur is already running for the Time Shrine as fast as his feet will carry him.

* * *

Long ago, it was the rulers of Spades who were deemed most worthy of entrusting the Watch of Time to. It has been the sacred duty of the royal family ever since to ensure, for the sake of the balance of the world, the Watch is never used by anyone.

But it is the last son of noble House Britannia, the very same house which helped found the Kingdom of Spades so long ago, who now stands before the altar where the Watch is kept and decides — for the sake of one and to the possible peril of all — to break faith with his lineage and do the unthinkable.

"Arthur?" Alfred runs into the shrine, frantically looking for the shrine guards Arthur has already dismissed. "Arthur, _stop!"_

Without sparing a single glance behind him, Arthur takes the Watch from the altar. "Leave me be, Alfred."

The walls and pillars of the shrine tremble and sway, as though from an earthquake.

_"No!" _Alfred yells, trying to keep upright and not lose his balance on the unsteady ground._ "_We're supposed to _protect_ the Watch, not _use it!"_

He runs up to Arthur and wraps his arms around him, trying to drag him away.

"I said _leave me be!"_ Arthur savagely shouts, placing a hand to Alfred's chest. Summoning a malevolent gust of wind, he flings Alfred's body across the shrine. The boy lands, unconscious, in a heap in the corner.

"Change the Fates' design!" Arthur orders the Watch.

_As you make your bed of nails, _the Fates whisper, _so you must lie in it._

_"Do it!"_ he commands, his throat burning from the force of it. "I _order you_ to change her fate and mine!"

The shrine _groans _under its own bulk, crumbling around him, falling to pieces. Chunks of stone lose their shape as they fall, lose all weight and solidity. Some swiftly rain down upon the ground with a cracking thud; others hang, adrift, in mid-air.

Just before a brilliant flash of bluish white light engulfs the shrine, random memories float around Arthur, suspended, as though on fluttering sheets of invisible shadowgraph paper. Some memories aren't his, called forth from centuries ago, but some are ones he knows: Marie walking across the ballroom to him — Kiku smiling daintily behind his teacup — his father holding out his arms for him — Alfred pushing his spectacles up his nose.

But the light is too much, too intense, searing Arthur's eyes. He squeezes them shut, shields his face with his arms —

At length, in the quiet stillness, a voice calls out to him.

It's the voice he has loved since the moment she first threw his gloves in the dirt.

"So," she asks, sounding amused. "You don't dance?"

.

.

**Author's notes (please feel free to skip):**

*Whew! Now that the real plot has finally kicked off, Arthur can stop whining about his birthright and go through some actual character development. I promise he'll become less dickish, especially toward Alfred. And I have a plan for Alfred. Just stay with me! : )

*I made Terra Branford Arthur's magic teacher because in my head, Terra will forever be the strongest magic user in all the _Final Fantasies._ Nina is the name of a pet snake from _Escaflowne._

*The thick brown sludge is Marmite. _Fucking Marmite._ One tiny lick off a knife was all it took for me to decide: NEVER AGAIN._ Yech._ I still shudder thinking about it.

*Hieronymus Bosch, the famous Dutch painter, who had some pretty wild ideas for the time period. You do not want to go to his version of Hell (ie, The Garden of Earthly Delights).

*I've always found King David fascinating — a man after God's own heart, but still so deeply, incredibly flawed. One of my favorite stories from the Bible is the prophet Nathan's rebuking of David for his affair with Bathsheba.

*Back in the day it was customary, when you stopped at an inn, to fill out the register with your name, age, occupation and destination. The poet Shelley once stopped at an inn in Switzerland and wrote his destination as "L'Enfer." When Lord Byron came by the inn later, he apparently scratched out Shelley's line and in his own listed his age as being 100 (he was actually around 28). Was he dead tired from traveling or just playing up the Romantic stereotype? 8Va


	4. the fool

**Bed of Nails**

.

_iv. the fool_

.

When Arthur finally feels it's safe to open his eyes, he still hesitates.

But it was Marie's voice he heard — he _knows_ it was her, he'd know her voice anywhere — and she would never knowingly lead him into danger. Slowly, he lowers his arms.

He hastily glances around after opening his eyes. Before him lies a bumpy but serviceable cobblestone street. Across the street sits a neat row of shops, the signs for each gently illuminated by hanging lanterns. Arthur has the uncanny feeling that if he happens to look further down the street, to his right, he'll find a large fountain adorned with two winged, dancing cherubs.

He looks, and sure enough, there it is.

_I know this place,_ he thinks. _This is Spades — this is the city._

"Arthur?"

He whirls around, and when he sees her behind him, his heart stops.

She's alive and standing right there before him, as though no assassin had come, as though no arrow had pierced her lung. She's alive, and so close he could reach out and touch her.

_Is this real?_ he wonders, not even daring to breathe, so great is his fear of ruining this possible illusion, this pretty picture of health and youth and bloom before him. _Oh, let it be real — let it be her._

The only thing separating him from her is the open window she's standing behind. His mind is a mess, his thoughts coming too fast and furious for him to make any sense of them or to settle on just one — but he does recognize, fleetingly, that the building before him must be the assembly rooms. It would explain the music drifting through the air, at least.

A worried look crosses her face.

"Are you alright?" she asks. "You look like you've just seen a ghost."

And Arthur — ball of nerves that he is, the current plaything of every emotion in existence — bursts into laughter.

Puzzled, she stares at him.

"A very funny ghost?" she suggests, giggling a little. "What did it say? I wanna hear the joke, too."

But Arthur's unable to stop his laughter from quickly spiraling into something heavier. His shoulders aren't shaking with mirth — something's been ripped straight from his heart and he's on the edge of sobbing.

Closing the gap between them, he envelopes her in his arms through the window, crushing her against him.

"I shall never let you go again," he brokenly whispers.

"Oh…" She furrows her brow in confusion. "But dear, what are you talk— "

_"Never._ I swear it."

She hesitates, but eventually brings her arms around him as well.

"I think somebody's had a little too much of the ale," she says, smiling fondly and stroking his hair.

Arthur only holds her tighter.

_"Ooh!"_ she suddenly squeals. "What are those? Are those for me?"

Arthur feels something slide out the back pocket of his trousers. Much to his dismay, Marie pulls away from him, bringing with her a small bunch of pink flowers.

_How did those get there?_

She brings them to her nose and inhales their scent.

"So _that's_ where you ran off to," she says with a knowing smile.

When she pulls the flowers away, there's a smudge of yellow pollen on her nose. Arthur, his hand trembling, reaches out to brush it away.

"Do you like them?" he whispers, his eyes tenderly roaming over her face. He remembers her pale cheek behind the glass, the dirt as it fell atop her coffin and blanketed her within the earth. But this girl before him — _she_ is all soft pink skin and glittering eyes, smiling and calling him _dear._ She's radiant, and he's bewitched.

"Of _course_ I like them!" she gleefully exclaims. "They're lovely, and it's very sweet of you."

His eyelids flutter shut as she leans over to kiss his cheek, her lips lingering against his skin. When she pulls away, his cheek follows after, bereft without her lips caressing it.

"Thank you for still bringing me flowers after all this time."

_After all this time?_

Delicately, she traces the curve of a petal with the tip of her finger. "And at a dance! It reminds me of the very first time you brought me flowers. But really, dear, you can't keep spoiling me like this."

"Oh — no?" he asks, fully intending to spoil her for the rest of his life.

"Nope. Because one of these days you'll finally spoil me rotten, and then I'll be impossible to live with, and _then_ what will you do with me?"

"Already impossible to live with," a deep voice says behind her.

Arthur hardly believes it when Willem comes to stands beside Marie at the window. Leaning against the sill, her brother lets his arms dangle over the edge, a cup filled with a dark purple liquid in his hand.

"You be quiet," Marie scolds him, elbowing his arm.

(And then, Arthur suddenly has a vision — a vague memory called forth in his mind from he knows not where, a memory he cannot actually remember making and yet still inexplicably owns.

He sees himself, much like he is now, standing before Marie at this very same window. Her face lit up with surprise and delight when he handed her a single red tulip, and Arthur's heart swelled in his chest at the sight of it.

But then her brother had come up beside her, a frightfully stern expression on his face, and it was all Arthur could do to utter a hasty goodbye before bolting down the street.)

"What kind of flowers are they?" Marie asks no one in particular, bringing them to her nose again.

Willem looks them over. "Belladonna lilies," he eventually decides.

"What do they mean?"

"Pride. Splendid beauty."

"Oh, _Arthur,"_ she says, winking at him. "Are you being poetic again?"

Willem snorts and rolls his eyes. "Show off."

Arthur watches as Willem pushes himself away from the sill and walks off. Looking back to Marie, he finds her eyes are already on him. It makes Arthur blush with pride and pleasure to be the recipient of such an adoring gaze; it's as much a relief as a reward.

"Well!" Marie exclaims, placing her hands on her hips. "What are you waiting for?"

"Erm — sorry?"

"Hurry up and come inside so you can _dance with me!"_ She leans over and grabs his hand. "You promised you would."

She pulls on his hand as though she would drag him in through the window.

"Oh — _no,"_ he protests, "I'll — I'll come in through the door — "

"Oh, don't be silly, silly," she scoffs, grabbing his arm and pulling. "You know no one will mind!"

He clambers into the room, cringing at his lack of manners all the while. _Honestly_ — who enters a room by climbing in through the damn window? And what barbarians are unsophisticated enough to let it occur without disapproving or being offended?

Arthur looks around the room. A new song is starting up, and the dancers rush to take their places. The first thing he notices is how _simply_ everyone is dressed — no color, cut, or textile stands out from the rest. No decadent jewelry, no outlandish hats, no maddening bustles or trains to make way for. Certainly none of the fine clothes he's been accustomed to his entire life, but what they lack in style is made up for with mobility, as the ensuing dancing can attest to.

Even Marie is humbly dressed. Her dress fits her well despite its simple cut, though the color is not so much a _pale_ blue as it is a _faded_ blue. Oddly, her dress is covered with brightly colored stains, and Arthur notices her fingers are stained as well.

He himself is wearing a simple white shirt — wrinkled, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows — tan trousers and boots.

_Is it possible I have become a commoner?_

* * *

Arthur, feeling terribly awkward and out of place, grabs Marie's hand and doesn't let go. She is his anchor in this strange new world, this strange new _time._

At least everyone attending the dance tonight seems to be enjoying themselves. Food and wine are imbibed without pretense or affectation; red faces shout at each other over the music and laugh longer and harder at jokes than the content of the jokes actually warrant. Flashes of petticoats are exposed with every twirl of the ladies' figures. Arthur's attended his unfair share of balls throughout his life, but he's never attended a gathering where everyone actually seemed to be _enjoying_ themselves.

Still fearing it might all be an illusion, Arthur grips Marie's hand tighter.

A young woman Arthur has never seen before makes her way over to them. Arthur notices that her dress and fingers are stained with all the colors of the rainbow, just like Marie's.

"Marie, the night won't last forever, you know!" she says, her voice sweet and friendly. "You'd better get that husband of yours to dance with you soon or he'll have finagled his way out of it again."

Arthur's eyes widen.

_Husband?_

He looks down at his left hand.

No ring.

"Oh, don't you worry about _that,_ Mei," Marie answers. "I'll get him to dance with me before the night's over." She glances up at Arthur and grins. "I have _plans_ for him."

"Uh-oh!"

Arthur, lost at sea amongst their girlish giggles, can only stare at them.

"Did you know that we first met at a dance?" Marie asks her friend.

"No, did you?"

"We did! He walked over to ask me for a dance but ended up accidentally spilling his drink all over me. That was the moment I knew it was true love."

(Another vague memory makes itself known to Arthur:

He's attending a dance in the assembly rooms and has done nothing but watch Marie dance all night. He'd never felt more enchanted by any other creature in his entire life than he was by her, though he's also wildly jealous — she's danced with every man in the room except him. But then, he hadn't yet plucked up the courage to ask her for a dance. When he finally did, it was only to end up spilling his wine on her dress. Mortified, he would have turned and walked out of her life forever had she not grabbed his hand and told him, with a wink, that if he was going to ruin her dress and make her sit out the rest of the evening, the very _least_ he could do was keep her company.

He's given another memory, as well — Marie telling him she doesn't care about rings, she's _his,_ and then the both of them standing before a holy man.)

_We're married?_

"But where is Kit?" the girl — Mei — asks.

"Oh, Angelique is watching him tonight," Marie explains. "I love him to bits, but it's nice to have the night all to ourselves, isn't it, dear?"

She lightly taps Arthur's chest with the flowers.

"Oh — yes," Arthur manages.

"I just love his squishy little cheeks — he is such a _cutie pie!"_

Marie beams. "Aw, thank you. Yes, he is, for all he drives his parents crazy."

She gives Arthur a knowing look.

(Arthur is riding a horse out to the fields. A little boy, not much older than two years of age, sits in the saddle with him. He holds onto the boy with one hand, the other clasping the horse's reins.

_Look, lad,_ he leans down to whisper, kissing the shell of the boy's ear.

The child thrusts out a chubby arm and points at the tall man in the fields waving to them.

_Uncle Will!)_

"I actually woke up the other afternoon and Kit _had a knife."_

"Oh,_ no…"_

"Oh, _yes!_ He was waving it around like a sword. His head's probably filled with too many of his Papa's stories. Thankfully he didn't have a chance to really hurt himself, just gave himself a little bitty cut across his nose."

Arthur's head is spinning. His mouth goes bone dry before flooding with saliva, as though he's about to be ill.

"I beg you would excuse me," he hurriedly says before rushing out of the room.

* * *

Roughly pushing his way through the crowd, Arthur eventually manages to escape the assembly rooms, flinging himself out the entrance and into the cool of the night.

He sprints the short distance down the street to the fountain, far away from the noise and stuffy warmth within the building. Throwing his head back, he takes deep breaths to calm his roiling stomach.

Opening his eyes and looking up at the stars, out of habit he connects them to each other and forms the constellations. They're all exactly as he left them back in the previous world — the previous time — whenever or wherever that was — whenever or wherever he happens to be at present. He had no idea what would actually happen when he decided to use the Watch — only a hint of a notion that, _somehow,_ things would change and cease to be as they were. But beyond that? Fuck if he knew.

Reaching into his pocket, he sighs with relief as his fingers brush against the Watch.

_She's alive. She's alive, she's here, she's warm, she's breathing. I've touched her and she hasn't vanished into thin air. She's alive._

Feeling a little better, he concentrates on the sound of the gentle gurgling from the fountain, leans over and lets the rising mist cool his face.

_She's alive. She knows me, and she seems happy. Bloody hell — we're married. And we have a child?_

"Arthur!"

He looks up and sees Marie running down the street toward him. His heart pounding in his chest, he rises to his feet and runs to meet her halfway.

"Are you alright?" she asks, coming up to him and looking him over, worriedly running her hands over him. "What happened? What's wrong?"

He can't wait a moment longer — he brings her face to his and fiercely kisses her.

She goes rigid with surprise only for a moment, quickly relaxing and melting against him, letting him wrap his arms around her waist and lift her up to him. Her lips, her breasts, her hips, her arms around him — she feels just as she did before. By all the Fates, she even_ smells_ the same — he breathes in deeply of her lavender soap and it makes his heart turn violently in his chest. She really _is_ here, she really _is_ alive, and she really _is_ his.

_After all this time…_

The kiss doesn't end so much as it fades away, eager lips pausing to softly pillow beside each other in the warm aftermath.

"What did I do to earn a kiss like _that?"_ she breathlessly asks, her fingers playing with the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

_You came back to me._

She leans away, putting some distance between them, and Arthur gently — albeit reluctantly — sets her back on her feet.

"You've been acting odd all night," she quietly murmurs, frowning as she keenly peers up at him.

Her eyes suddenly very wide, she takes a step backward and puts even more distance between them.

"You're not feeling _sick,_ are you?"

"No. Why?"

"There are rumors that plague is starting to come in from Hearts."

"There's plague in Hearts?" Arthur asks, immediately thinking of Kiku.

"There's _always_ been plague in Hearts," Marie warily says. "That entire kingdom is cursed — you know that."

And Arthur has so _very_ many questions, but as he looks into her eyes, he decides they can wait. All he wants, for the time being, is to see her smile again.

"Forgive me, love. Perhaps I _have_ had too much ale. Let's go back inside."

He offers her his hand. "I owe you a dance, do I not?"

She smiles, her natural cheer quickly returning. "You owe me _all _the dances!"

Without hesitation, she slips her hand into his, and together they head back to the assembly rooms.

"Darling?" he eventually asks.

"Mmm?"

"Where does your friend Angelica live?"

"You mean Ange_lique?"_

"Erm — yes. Angelique. Quite right. Where does she live? I should very much like to meet Kit."

_"Meet_ him?"

Nervously, Arthur laughs. _"See_ him, darling. I said _see,_ not meet."

"Oh." She smiles and comfortingly rubs his arm. "Don't worry, she always takes good care of him. And she won't steal him away from you — she'll bring him by tomorrow morning on her way to work. But tonight, you're _all mine."_

Arthur looks at the houses and shops lining the street, thinks about all the others past his immediate line of sight, and wonders which one his son is sleeping in.

_My son._

Anxiety suddenly overwhelms him. What sort of father is he? Does he provide well for the boy? Does the boy want for anything? Is he in good health? What does he look like? What does he laugh at? Which are his favorite toys?

But his anxiety temporarily halts as they pass Cowper's Tea Room.

Arthur knows that — in their original time, at least — Cowper's Tea Room was destroyed in a fire four hundred years prior to Arthur's birth.

How far back did the Fates go? How many people and events did they rearrange in order for him to be born a commoner?

* * *

"To King Alfred!" a drunk man shouts, raising his cup high in the air, to which the entire room cheers and raises their cups in turn.

An idea comes to Arthur as he watches the portly, middle-aged man. His fear of doing something wrong, of appearing foolish, is lessening with each passing minute — so much so that when Marie leaves his side to go talk to a group of her friends, he feels confident enough to approach the drunk man.

"Good evening, friend," Arthur amiably says, sidling up next to the man. "Why — what's this?"

"Wot's wot?"

"Are you aware, sir, of how _dangerously_ close to being _empty_ your cup is?"

The drunk man frowns and peers inside his cup. "No, there be a'least two more gulps left — surely?"

While the drunk man continues investigating the contents of his cup, Arthur takes the opportunity to snatch an empty cup and a pitcher of wine from a serving girl's tray as she passes by them.

"No, indeed, friend — I'm afraid that upon further examination you'll find only one remaining. One and a half, at the most, but even _that _is being generous."

"Well — " The drunk man scrunches up his ruddy face in frustration. _"Piss!"_

"Not to worry!" Arthur triumphantly crows, raising the pitcher. "I always come prepared for situations like these, as they're more common than you'd think."

The drunk man licks his lips as he watches Arthur refill his cup.

"Bless you, lad," he solemnly whispers, "bless you."

"Oh, pish posh." Arthur fills his own cup as well. "There we are. Never any pleasure in drinking alone, I find."

"How right you are!" the drunk man jovially exclaims, failing to clink his cup against Arthur's on his first attempt, but succeeding on his second. "To dear friends, old and new."

He downs half his drink in one go while Arthur takes a single sip. It's quite good, he finds, and much better than he was expecting. It tastes like the fine wines from the royal winery.

"Now, be so good as to tell me, friend — what's all the celebration for?"

"Why," the drunk man half-drawls, half-laughs into his cup, " 'tis King Alfred's birthday, 'o course."

"Of course."

As the drunk man busies himself with slurping down another mouthful of wine, Arthur looks out the window. In the distance, he can see Spades Castle. Each and every window is awash with light, the castle glowing from within.

"They be havin' a grand ball up at the castle," the drunk man sloppily continues, "but we thought we'd have a party down here for him as well. The king even sent us some barrels of his fancy wine and said he hopes we all be havin' a good time, bless 'im."

As Arthur gazes at the castle, an unexpected pang of homesickness hits him.

"Oh, but that be not all, lad," the drunk man continues, only too happy to explain.

"Do go on, friend."

"Y'see," the drunk man loudly whispers, throwing an arm around Arthur's shoulders and pulling him close, "the king's gone and got himself _engaged,_ he has."

"Has he, indeed?"

"I give ye my word as a gentleman. Celebratin' that tonight as well. All the ladies in the kingdom wept for a week when they heard the news."

"And whom is he marrying?"

The man slaps Arthur's back, and Arthur flinches, swaying from the force of it.

"That be the thing!" the drunk man shouts. "He be marryin' a nobody! Hails from some village up north, she does. The story goes that nobody'd ever seen her smile, she havin' such a serious air about 'er and all. So it was said that the man who could make her smile would be the one to wed her. And when the story reached the castle, the king went off searchin' for her, just to see if the story was true. And the king be such a charmin' man, but even _he_ couldn't make the lady laugh, because she was the Lady Who Could Not Be Moved."

He expectantly holds out his cup, and Arthur obliges him with a refill.

"But in the end he got her to laugh, our king, he did. Completely accidental-like, though. The one time he wasn't even tryin' to be funny for her sake, he made her burst out laughin'. And then that, as they say, was _that._ They got engaged quick as anything and he brought her down the castle. And now to look at her, you'd never think she was once the Lady Who Could Not Be Moved, so much smilin' she does."

The man clinks his cup against Arthur's.

"Here's to the Queen of Spades," he says before throwing his head back and downing his cup.

"Yes," Arthur quietly says, something wrenching within him. "To the Queen of Spades."

* * *

Arthur dances every dance with Marie that night. He knows each dance from when he was taught them in his youth, and thankfully only a few steps here and there have been altered in the transition from the court to the lower classes. As adamantly as Arthur believed he never cared much for dancing, tonight he realizes it was only because he never before had the right partner.

As the musicians begin packing away their instruments and gathering their things, a solo violinist begins playing a slow melody as the master of ceremonies calls the last dance. Rather than end the night as part of the crowd, Arthur and Marie hide away in a corner, dancing close and slow.

"I'm so tired," she mumbles against his chest.

Arthur chuckles and kisses the top of her head. "Shall we leave then, my love? Beat the crowd home?"

Yawning, she nods.

Arthur leads her out of the assembly rooms, but she looks so exhausted as she stands in the street, unable to keep from yawning and barely able to shuffle along on her feet, that he offers to carry her home on his back.

"Onward, noble steed," she slurs, handing him her flowers and crawling onto his back.

He suddenly realizes he has no idea where they live.

"Where to, my Lady?" he asks, hoping she'll play along.

"Turn right at the fountain. Go straight until you get to the…"

She yawns.

"Until we get to the…?"

"The well. Turn left. The cottage with the tulips is ours."

She rests her cheek against his shoulder and sluggishly laughs.

"You really _did_ have too much to drink tonight, didn't you?"

Arthur follows her directions, her breath slow and steady in his ear as she falls asleep against him.

* * *

After stumbling into and through the unfamiliar house, Arthur eventually finds what must be their bedroom and sets Marie down on the bed as gently as he can. She curls up on her side, sighing contentedly and tucking her hand under her chin.

"I love you, darling," he whispers, pulling the covers around her and leaning down to kiss her hair. "Tonight has been the greatest night of my life."

She hums happily at that. Rather than keep her up any longer, Arthur sits and watches her sleep, stroking her hair.

At length, his curiosity gets the better of him, and he rises to wander around their little cottage, the moonlight seeping through the windows and lighting his way. Their modest home cannot compare to the splendor he's used to, of course, but he finds it charming regardless, if only because this is where they have made a life together. The cottage is tiny, but not uncomfortable; austerely furnished, but still cozy and inviting.

In one room he finds a wooden cot and toys strewn about the floor. It must be Kit's room, he realizes, though he finds himself suddenly too tired to let the anxiety nettle him as it did before.

Worn out from dancing and exhausted from being thrust into a new life (a new world, a new time), he makes his way back to their bedroom. Crawling into the bed, he wraps his arms around Marie and falls asleep as soon as his head falls upon the pillow.

* * *

Three hours later — though it only felt like three minutes at most to Arthur — there's knocking at the front door.

Carefully, so as not to wake her — _my wife,_ he thinks, wondering in his bleary-eyed stupor if he'll ever get used to the sound of it — he shuffles to the front door of the cottage.

A dark-skinned young woman, her hair in pigtails, stands before him when he opens the door.

And in her arms, his head resting upon her shoulder, is a slumbering little boy.

"Did you _seriously_ just wake up?" the woman demands, an unimpressed look on her face.

Arthur rubs his eyes. "Yes, actually."

"What's your deal? You're usually up by now."

Before he can think of a suitable reply, the woman — Angelique, obviously — carefully deposits the precious bundle into his arms.

"He's usually up and about by now, but he wore himself out last night."

"Oh." Arthur stares down at the little head of brown hair. "Oh. How did he accomplish that?"

Angelique shrugs. "The usual — getting into all my stuff and tearing up my house."

She leans in close and rubs the back of her finger against the boy's cheek. "Still, he's a cute kid. Must be because he takes more after his mother than his father in the looks department."

It takes Arthur a moment to fully understand her meaning.

"That's uncalled for," he huffs, irritated. "Do they not teach manners in — well — _wherever_ it is you come from?"

"See you later, jerk. Gotta head off to work before it gets any later." She yawns and turns around, walking down the steps of the front porch. "And you'd better get a move on, too, if _you_ don't want to be late."

Arthur watches her go, deciding to make up his mind about her later.

Shutting the door, he walks into the sitting the room and sinks into a chair. He rearranges the boy — Kit, _his son_ — in his arms and takes a good look at him.

Angelique was right — Kit _does_ take after his mother. The boy has Arthur's eyebrows and thin lips, but everything else about him resembles Marie. The boy yawns and stretches, blinking his eyes open. He even has his mother's eyes.

They stare at each other for a few moments before Kit clambers his way up onto Arthur's chest.

"Papa," he coos, wrapping his arms around Arthur's neck and falling asleep once more.

Not daring to move, Arthur sits and holds the boy until Willem arrives and reprimands him for not being ready for work.

* * *

In this timeline, Arthur quickly learns, he and Willem work long days together as field hands.

The Fates are kind and reveal more memories from this life to Arthur: He was born in a village on the other side of the kingdom, but came to the capital because there was better opportunity for work. The first time he ever saw Marie was when Willem forgot his lunch one day and she brought it to him out in the fields.

He and Willem leave for the fields around dawn and work for the better part of the day; because she works in the clothing shop at night, Marie sleeps during the day. Kit accompanies his father and his uncle to the fields so that his mother can sleep without interruption, and then, when his childish curiosity and need for adventure have worn him out during the daylight hours, his mother brings him with her to the clothing shop so that his father may sleep. He and a few of the other seamstresses' children sleep on the bags of soft cotton in the back storage room whilst their mothers work.

And Arthur had always assumed being a member of the lower classes was awful, and while there are difficult moments, he finds much to enjoy about it.

It's entirely different from everything he grew up learning, but just because the former Queen of Spades is not _used_ to labor does not mean he is _adverse_ to it. He relishes the rewarding satisfaction of fixing, creating, doing with your hands and body, and then actually seeing the results — a far cry from politicking 'round and 'round with the obstinate senators in Parliament. It fascinates him how deeply his muscles and bones ache when he falls into bed in the early evening; when his stomach growls from hunger born of toil and sweat; that the human body can be pushed to such extremes, and still find the strength to keep going.

For the first time in years, he doesn't feel so useless, doesn't feel so worthless.

* * *

How far back did the Fates change things so as to make Arthur a commoner?

All the way back to the very beginnings of Spades itself.

Arthur, alone one evening after Marie had left with Kit for the clothing shop, found himself wondering: If he is still in possession of the Watch, then what is currently housed inside the Time Shrine?

The answer, when he left to go see the Shrine for himself, was that the Shrine no longer exists. All that remains is crumbled ruins from centuries past.

A history book from the library (where, incidentally, Marie's friend Angelique works) tells Arthur everything he needs to know.

His ancestor was to be wed, but changed her mind at the last minute, and this is where the story deviates: Instead of holing up in her bedroom and simply refusing to meet her intended at the altar, she escaped the castle by climbing through her bedroom window. A loyal lady-in-waiting brought her piles of bed sheets, the ends of which she tied together and secured to her bedpost. She fled to the Time Shrine, whereupon she took the Watch, and she undoubtedly would have used the Relic to change her fate had not a Shrine Guard apprehended her just in time.

House Britannia and all its cadet branches were thrown into utter and eternal disgrace, stripped of all titles and land. What exactly happened to the Watch of Time, no one can say — it has been lost to history, and with no Watch to worship, the Shrine eventually fell into disrepair.

The Shrine Guard who apprehended her was lauded as a hero, and every noble title was bestowed upon him. Himself a product of a lowly and half-forgotten cadet branch of the ancient House of York, he wished to distinguish himself from his distant relations, and so founded the House of _New_ York — the noble house from which King Alfred (the Third) is directly descended.

* * *

"So that's the new Queen," Angelique says, standing beside Arthur outside the library as they watch the wedding procession come through the center of town.

The musicians leading the entourage play the traditional Spades wedding hymn while Alfred and his Queen smile and wave to the people from the royal coach. The new Queen seems very refined, very sophisticated. She carries herself with grace and poise, in stark contrast to Alfred's bubbly exuberance.

Angelique sighs dramatically.

"I wonder what it's like to live in a big fancy castle, with nice clothes and sparkly jewelry, and servants doing whatever you want — _you go do this, you go do that._ Must be nice."

"Probably not as nice as you imagine it to be," Arthur mutters.

"Ugh, that's _just like you_ to be the dream killer."

"If you do not wish to hear the truth," Arthur contemptuously snaps, "then you oughtn't to ask in the first place. It's as simple as that."

Angelique rolls her eyes. "Why did Mar have to go and get chained to such a _snob?"_ she mutters, snatching one of the books out of his hand as punishment. "And how would _you_ know what it's like to live in a castle, _anyway?"_

"I — "

Arthur snaps his mouth shut and tries to focus on the procession.

"Still," Angelique continues after another sigh, "I like her. She gives poor girls like me hope, you know? I hope they have a good life together."

It surprises Arthur that he finds himself wishing Alfred all imaginable happiness as well.

(He wonders, sometimes, why Alfred never told him anything about his life before he was made king. And sometimes, he feels something almost like regret that he never once thought to ask Alfred about his youth in the first place.)

Even in this new timeline, Alfred has _still_ managed to steal the throne from him. Their birth cards have been switched — Alfred born royal, Arthur common — but Arthur can't find it within himself to be all that upset about this reversal of roles, for each has been granted what they desired most in their previous life.

_Spades appears to be gone forever from me now. That life is over. This town is my home now — my new life. But the Fates have been kind, and I would trade it all again — and more, besides — for her._

Let Alfred have the throne. Arthur has Marie, and she is more than enough. She is _everything._

After the procession passes and the crowd disperses, Arthur looks across the street and notices a man replacing the yellow curtains in his shop window with black ones.

"The Marlows' son died yesterday," Angelique informs him.

"Did he."

She nods. "But when you ask the parents, they can't agree on what it was he died from. The _wife_ claims her son fell down the stairs and cracked his head open. The _husband_ just mumbles something about an allergic reaction to some kind of food. Neither one of them mentions that their son was complaining of fever and aches this past week."

Arthur catches a glimpse of the man's face through the window — it's the drunken man he spoke to at the dance.

"Was it plague?" he quietly asks.

Angelique stubbornly keeps her eyes fixed straight ahead of her.

"There are rumors it's come to Spades."

"I know that!" she snaps. "I just don't want to think that they might actually be _true._ The Marlows are one of the wealthier families in town — they can afford all the best healers and all the best medicine. But if even _their_ son can die from it, then that means _no one_ is safe."

* * *

Arthur doesn't love Kit — not yet.

He had never spent much time thinking about children, much less actually having one. Before he came of age, he begged Yao not to throw potential brides capable of bearing heirs in his path until he was finished with his studies and secure in his role as king. When he was forced to marry Alfred, the idea of having a child of his own seemed laughable.

The problem is that he doesn't really _know_ Kit, not in the way Arthur imagines his own father knew _him._ He does not see himself as a parent so much as a temporary guardian, waiting for the day when the boy's _real_ father returns.

He cares for the boy in a distant, detached sort of way — more out of a sense of obligation to help and guide someone who cannot yet help himself, and, greater still, for the simple fact that Kit is Marie's son. Arthur's mind is not yet capable of wrapping itself around the fact that _he_ also had a hand in creating this little human being — that for as much as he is half of Marie, he is also half of Arthur, and that Kit belongs to _both_ of them.

* * *

Kit, it turns out, is an exceedingly _mobile_ little boy, never tarrying in one place for too long and never running out of things to search for or be mesmerized by. There is nothing he does not wish to taste, to tear apart and thoroughly examine, to leave his mark on.

He's also fearless.

"Mama," Kit says one night, tugging at the hem of Marie's dress as she makes dinner. "Story."

She glances down at him and runs her hand through his hair, over the two stubborn strands that won't lay flat for anything.

"But Papa's the one who tells stories."

_"Mama,"_ Kit demands, stomping his foot. _"Story."_

"Yes, darling," Arthur chimes in, watching them from his seat at the table. "Story."

(Prompting Marie to tell Kit a story is one of Arthur's favorite ways of learning about his new life.)

"Well, alright," she sighs, yielding. "If that's what my boys want."

"Tell him the story of how his uncle received that ghastly scar on his — "

Marie shrieks and drops her spoon, the utensil clattering to the floor as she runs to the other side of the small kitchen.

"Darling," Arthur asks, "what's the matter? What has you so — "

But then Arthur glances at Kit, sees what Marie saw, and jumps up to join her.

From his pocket, Kit has pulled out a scorpion. He holds it between his fingers, the orange-colored mini-beast dangling ferociously in the air.

"Pet!" he proudly announces, brandishing it before his wide-eyed parents.

"Kit — honey," Marie coos, tightly squeezing Arthur's hand, "would you please take that outside for Mama?"

Kit pouts, considering.

"Out?" he asks, pointing toward the door.

His parents vigorously nod their heads.

After a moment, Kit — oblivious to their strained smiles, the panic in their eyes — decides that if his mother has asked something of him, he ought to do it, and so waddles over to the door.

"Out," he merrily chimes as he opens it, "out."

He walks to the tiny garden, depositing the scorpion on the ground and giving it a few friendly farewell taps.

"Go, go, go," he tells it, and then, when it skitters off: "Bye bye!"

The boy walks back into the house and holds out his empty hands, shrugging and looking around the room.

"All gone," he innocently says before scampering away into his bedroom.

Arthur and Marie sigh in relief against each other.

"Last week it was spiders," Marie mutters. "This week it's _scorpions?"_

Arthur can't say he's not glad to have missed the week of spiders. "How are we ever to _survive_ him?"

"Until he starts bringing home cute animals we can actually keep as pets, like a puppy or a kitty, he's _your_ son."

* * *

Before she leaves for work one night, Arthur pulls her onto his lap and kisses her. He doesn't let her go, doesn't stop kissing her for quite some time.

The Fates have been kind in granting him _some_ memories of their life together, but he hasn't any knowledge of their being intimate, much less the night (or morning, or afternoon) Kit was conceived. And for as much as he doesn't want to rush — for it will be the first time Arthur remembers, even though it won't _truly_ be their first time — he's also desperate to feel her hands on him, impatient to discover all the different ways she can say his name.

But, as happens every time he thinks he's found a moment to be with her, there's a crash from within the next room, followed by Kit's piercing wail. With a tiny, rueful smile, she hurriedly disengages herself from his embrace and leaves to check on the boy.

* * *

The clothing shop Marie works at keeps such odd hours because Mr. Bamber, the overseer, originally envisioned the shop as a way to gainfully employ women of the night who would otherwise be offering up their bodies to paying customers rather than their sewing skills.

Bamber, realizing the women would never be accepted by so-called _respectable_ society, decided it would be best to let them continue working the late hours they were accustomed to, the happy result being that few returned to walking the streets. Eventually the shop became a safe haven for other women scorned by society — women who, despite living on the fringees of good society, were in want of a better life, in need of a steady income, and willing to work for both. All they lacked was opportunity.

Some liken Bamber to a guardian angel for taking on pregnant women abandoned by feckless lovers, women with mental and physical disabilities, women with little to no education. Others consider his ideas — or perhaps just_ him_ — positively mental. Still, his experiment hasn't failed him yet, and even those who consider him a bit touched in the head still patronize his shop, where the women spend their hours creating new clothes and mending well-worn favorites.

Marie enjoys the work, but she doesn't plan to spend the rest of her life dying, spinning, cutting and stitching.

* * *

Marie always rises from bed early enough in the evening so that she and her little family can spend some time with each other and share a meal together. The meals she cooks are simple yet satisfying, though tonight's is a positively vile exception.

"Oh," she suddenly says, _"oh,"_ scrunching up her face and spitting her soup back into her bowl as politely as possible.

Arthur dutifully swallows his own spoonful and then shudders, coughing and clearing his throat.

"Oh, dear," she says, staring at her soup, covering her mouth and nose with her hand. "I'm sorry. I don't know what that was, but it sure wasn't soup."

_"Bleh,"_ Kit concurs, sticking out his tongue.

"Well," Marie sighs, pushing her chair away from the table, "bread and cheese it is, then, I guess. I'm sorry, boys."

"No need to be sorry, darling," Arthur tells her, and means it. He's never cooked before in his life, but apparently — if what Angelique has so rudely hinted at is true — he's not very good at it, anyway. If it weren't for Marie, he's convinced he would starve.

He takes Kit from his chair and stands the boy on his lap. "And no need for sticking out tongues, young man," he lightly scolds.

In response, Kit only wobbles atop his father's legs, ignoring him.

"It's bad when _he_ won't eat something," Marie giggles, walking to the stove. "He'll eat anything — just like his Papa."

She begins slicing the bread, but her knife stills as she gazes at her spice rack. Laying the knife aside, she picks up two glass bottles of spices and holds them close to her face.

"But that's so strange," she mutters, intently scrutinizing one jar, then the other. "I did it just like Mrs. Marlow said…"

Eventually she turns to face Arthur, her shoulders drooping.

"This is embarrassing," she begins.

Arthur expectantly raises his eyebrows at her.

"I accidentally used _chili powder_ instead of _paprika,"_ she explains. "No wonder the soup tasted horrible."

"Ah. Not to worry, darling — these things happen."

"More often than not, though, lately."

She trudges back to the table and sets the bread and cheese down. With a sigh, she falls into her chair and rubs her eyes.

"Do you think the clothing shop will ruin my eyes forever?" she sadly asks, an anxious look in her eyes. "Or — do you maybe think this is just temporary?"

He's noticed her squinting, more than she ever did during their original time together. She frequently rubs at her eyes, holds things close to her face, and complains of headaches.

_How long has she been working there? _he wonders, imagining her hunched over her needlework, the candlelight her only illumination. _Long enough to impair her sight?_

"And spectacles are so expensive…" She breaks off a soft piece of bread and holds it out to Kit. He takes the bread and plops down on Arthur's lap, happily gnawing on it. She brushes her thumb against his cheek. "I just want to be able to watch my son grow up, is all."

"Darling, if it's as bad as that, then you ought not to work there any longer."

"But we're _so close,"_ she says, reaching out to squeeze his hand.

_So close to what?_

"We've almost got enough money saved up, so I won't have to work there for much longer." She brightens at the thought, a small smile on her face. "And then, when I've finally opened up the bakery and the entire kingdom knows my name, I can buy the spectacles if I really need them. But more than that — "

She brushes her thumb across his hand.

"I'll be able to work whatever hours I want. And from everything I've seen and heard, bakeries are mostly busy during the early morning hours and the early afternoon."

"So then — " Arthur flips his hand and laces their fingers together. "You and I would have the same schedule? We'd have the entire evening to spend together?"

She nods.

"And if you're _extra_ nice to me," she says, grinning, "I'll give myself the same day off as you, too."

She leans over to give him a soft, chaste kiss on his lips, and then rests her forehead against his.

"This won't last forever, dear," she sighs, closing her eyes. "I promise. If we can just hold on a little longer, then we'll finally be able to have the life we've always wanted."

She grabs Kit's feet, lifting them up and down in the air, and the boy gurgles in pleasure.

"Mei, too, I think," she continues. "She's been working at the clothing shop longer than I have. I've asked her to help me run the bakery and she said she'd love to. How many more pots of ruined soup do you think you can stomach until then?"

* * *

Willem is feeding small bits of bread to Kit as he and Arthur take their lunch under the shade of a tree one afternoon.

And Kit can be such a _handful_ sometimes, such an exhausting little terror taxing not only Arthur's patience but also his sanity — the boy frequently needs his nose wiped, has to be admonished not to shout his words, whines fitfully for half an hour when something not belonging to him is taken away from him.

But there are also moments where the boy makes Arthur's heart unravel in his chest. The other day Arthur panicked when he thought he'd lost the boy, but Kit had only wandered into a neighbor's garden a few houses down from his own. When Arthur found him he was _filthy,_ covered from head to toe in dirt and smelling vaguely of wet dog. But when the boy thrust his dirty hand up, clutching a wilted white flower in his hand, and simply said _for Mama,_ Arthur couldn't find it within him to punish the boy.

Arthur's also noticed the boy mimicking Willem's movements and expressions on more than one occasion — it's obvious the boy adores his uncle. Arthur finds himself jealous, and hopes that one day Kit will mimic _him_ as well.

"What's going on in Hearts?" Arthur asks, pulling a piece of grass from Kit's hair, as soft and fine as his mother's. "Why is it cursed?"

Willem eyes him uncertainly.

"I just hear so many different accounts as to why it's cursed," he explains, hoping Willem believes him. "Do you know which are rumors and which are true?"

Willem turns his attention back to his nephew. "Their queen was sickly from birth. Got worse after marryin' the king. Those're facts. After Queen Kiku died — "

_"What?"_

Willem looks at him in the same wary manner Marie did the night of the dance. "What d'you mean, _what?"_

"It's…nothing," Arthur says, a stricken look on his face.

_Kiku is dead?_

"I just — " He blinks and shakes his head, trying to hide his shock. "It puzzles me as to why they'd allow the king to marry an invalid in the first place. Do they not say a kingdom needs both a king _and_ a queen working in tandem to survive?"

Willem shrugs and grunts. "It was in his cards. Can't do anything 'bout that."

Arthur dips his fingers into his pocket and runs them over the face of the Watch.

In the time he knew Kiku best, Kiku hardly, if ever, fell ill.

_I'm so sorry, Kiku. What have I done?_

Willem wipes the slobber away from Kit's mouth. Reclining on his back, he brings the boy with him and sets him atop his chest.

"Superstitious shit, you ask me," he scoffs, "kings and queens. Still, Hearts fell apart after he died. Got the plague."

_The cards say the day Hearts falls, the entire world will fall._

"Marie mentioned there were rumors it had come here, to Spades."

"Maybe. Guess we'll find out."

"I certainly hope not."

Still preoccupied with Kit, Willem snorts. "I think we all hope not."

* * *

Arthur sits on the edge of his and Marie's bed, turning the Watch over in his calloused hand.

_My best friend is dead. I shall never see him again._

For the first time, he's questioning whether or not using the Watch was the right thing to do.

_But…is he dead because of me? Surely not. I had no control over what the Fates decided to do, what cards the Kiku of this world was given._

As he runs his hand over Marie's pillow, traces the outline of where her head had lain, the only sound throughout the tiny cottage is the Watch's meticulous ticking away of the seconds.

He knows the Fates have been kind, but — why does the Watch's ticking get louder in Arthur's head every day?

(What is it counting down to?)

* * *

This is how Arthur falls in love with his son:

He has happened to come across plans for a new irrigation system in the fields, but as he looks them over under the shade of his and Willem's lunch tree one morning, he's discovering major flaws in the proposed system.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Kit playing with a small snake.

It's a harmless little slip of a thing, really — nothing more than a common grass snake — but Arthur reaches over and takes the snake from the unsuspecting little boy's hands.

Arthur tosses it out into the field, and as Kit watches it slither off, he holds out his arms, as though willing the snake to return to him.

His lip trembles. "Papa…"

"No, lad."

Arthur returns his attention to the plans, trying to think of ways to correct the errors, and Kit runs off to join a group of other field hands' children playing nearby.

When he returns some minutes later, Arthur doesn't even have to lift his eyes from the plans to know that the boy's returned with the snake. Again, he reaches out, pries the snake from his son's tight grasp, and tosses it back out into the field.

"But. _But."_

"No."

Kit huffs and wanders off — to search for the snake again, no doubt. But the last thing Arthur is expecting is for Kit to sneak up behind him and _slip the snake down the back of his shirt._

Arthur squawks and leaps from the ground, chaotically pulling at his shirt in an effort to untuck it from his trousers and free the snake. After a bit of undignified hopping on Arthur's part, the snake finally falls to the ground. Arthur hooks his boot under the creature and kicks it far out into the field.

"You little — !" he roars, rounding on the boy.

_You little shit,_ Arthur was about to say, but the fearless Kit is staring his father down with a most determined pout on his face, three other tiny grass snakes clutched in his hands.

And it reminds Arthur so much of himself when he was young, when Yao would not let him keep a pet snake in the castle.

"Papa, _mine,"_ Kit says, waving the snakes at his father. "Pet."

And Arthur laughs, because whether he was once this little boy or whether this little boy will grow up to become him, one thing he is completely sure of — this is his son through and through, and how Marie is ever going to survive the _both_ of them is anyone's guess.

* * *

_"Stop squirming,"_ Marie irritably chides her fussy child that evening. "Your bath will be over quicker if you'd just stop _moving_ so much!"

An idea comes to Arthur as he watches them. Standing behind Marie, he conjures a ball of water in his hand and twists it into different forms: A dog, a duck, a horse.

Kit, looking around his mother's arm, sits and watches, _hypnotized,_ and Marie is able to finish bathing him without any problems at all.

Wrapping a towel around the boy, she lifts him out of the tub.

"See?" she asks Kit with a relieved sigh. "That wasn't so bad, now, was it?"

She turns back to Arthur, who hastily swipes the water figures away and innocently clasps his hands behind his back.

"Until he learns to prefer being clean to being dirty, he's — "

_"My _son," Arthur finishes, winking at Kit, who has yet to take his wondering eyes off his father. "Yes, darling. I know."

* * *

Marie is wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, about to head out the door with Kit one night, when Arthur grabs her hands.

"Don't go."

"But, dear — I have to."

"Tell them you're not feeling well. Just for tonight, stay here with me."

Arthur knows he's been lucky and tries not to dwell on the things of his past life he misses, like honey in his tea and clean handkerchiefs. Yao's nagging. _Kiku._

But if the Fates have been _so bloody kind,_ why do they mock him by restoring Marie to him and granting them a life together, only for him to never see her? He's never felt more alone, in this life or the previous, than he does when the only sound in the cottage is the creaking of their cold bed's springs beneath him as he crawls into it without her.

"I wish I could stay," she says. "But I don't want to take advantage of Mr. Bamber, or do anything that would jeopardize my job."

Arthur hangs his head.

"I miss you," he quietly tells her.

"I miss you, too," she whispers, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek. "But it's only for a little while longer. I've done the math and checked it over, and I'm pretty sure that just one more month is all it will take for me to have enough money to open up the bakery. And then we'll spend so much time together you'll get sick of me."

He squeezes her hand. "I could never get sick of you."

He tries to remember that the Fates have been kind, but as more days without her pass, it's getting harder and harder to remember.

* * *

Arthur falls asleep in a chair that night, one of his library books open across his lap. Eventually rousing himself enough to haul his body from the chair, he's making his way to the bedroom when he hears a frantic knocking on the door.

When he opens it, Mei stands before him, Kit in her arms.

_Why isn't she at the clothing shop with Marie? Why does she have Kit?_

"Hullo," Arthur mumbles, sleep still clinging to his brain. "What can I do for you, Mei?"

She looks at him with large, apologetic eyes, as though she doesn't want to tell him.

"Mei?"

"You need to get to clothing shop as quickly as you can," she blurts. "It's Marie."

Arthur is alert in an instant. Without even touching the Watch in his pocket, he can feel every tick of the second hand pulsing in his blood.

"What about her?" he asks. "What's happened?"

"Well — it's — she — "

_"Tell me."_

Mei can't meet his eyes.

"She's sick."

* * *

Marie fainted whilst working at one of the looms. She was taken into the storage room and laid out upon the sacks of pre-spun cotton.

Not half an hour later, her lymph nodes were beginning to swell and blister.

Shortly after that, in the throes of a hallucinatory fever, she was vomiting blood.

* * *

"Where is she?" Arthur demands when he arrives at the clothing shop, Mei following close behind with Kit in her arms. "Show me where my wife is."

"She's in the storage room," a thin, spindly man with a thin, spindly moustache — Mr. Bamber — says, pointing to the door behind him. "We tried to make her as comfortable as possible."

Arthur goes to the door, but upon trying the handle, finds it won't move.

"Unlock this door," he orders, his eyes blazing.

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

"The hell you _can't."_

"I've already sent the other girls home because" — Bamber drops his voice to a whisper — "we all know what this is. I don't want it spreading and I don't want anyone else put in danger."

There's a low moan from behind the door — Marie trying to call out Arthur's name — and that's all it takes for Arthur to see red and go completely, unrepentantly _mad._ If Bamber refuses to unlock the door, Arthur decides he shan't be satisfied until he's broken it to pieces, until he's completely _decimated _the only thing standing between him and his sick wife.

Bamber grabs Arthur and struggles to restrain him as he kicks at the door. Mei sets Kit down on his feet and rushes over to seize one of Arthur's arms.

"Arthur, stop!" she begs him. "You mustn't! Please!"

"I shall strangle the _both of you_ with my _bare hands _if you don't let me in there!" Arthur viciously snarls.

"Think of your son!" Bamber shouts.

At that, Arthur stops resisting.

"What if you caught it as well?" Bamber asks, taking advantage of the moment. "What would happen to your boy? Do you want him to grow up without _either_ of his parents?"

Arthur blinks.

All thoughts flee his brain, save one: _I cannot lose her again._

And then, as he looks over at Kit: _He cannot lose his mother._

His limbs go limp. Bamber and Mei release him.

Arthur turns back to the door, and tries the handle again.

"Darling?" he calls out to her. "Can you hear me?"

She moans, then retches.

Still, the handle refuses to budge. Dejected, Arthur closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the wooden door.

"I'm here, darling," he brokenly tells her, hoping she hears him. "I won't leave you. I shan't move from this spot."

Mei can't stand the scene before her any longer and, with tears streaming down her cheeks, runs out of the shop. Bamber sadly shakes his head and leaves as well.

* * *

The shop grows quiet once Marie finally ceases moaning and retching. When Arthur realizes what has happened, he slides to the floor, his hand still gripping the door handle.

Kit shuffles over to Arthur, and he immediately takes the boy in his arms and protectively coils around him.

_Not again. This wasn't supposed to happen. She was supposed to live. Not again…_

"Papa," Kit mumbles, squirming in his arms, "hot."

Arthur pulls away to look at him, sees his flushed cheeks, his unfocused, glassy eyes. He feels feverish, and —

Removing the boy's shirt, Arthur frantically checks him over.

On the soft skin of his underarm, a tiny blister has already formed.

_No — no — no, no, no —_

Kit falls heavily against Arthur and curls up against him, closing his eyes. "Hurt, Papa. Sleepy."

_Why is this happening?_ Arthur demands, fiercely clutching Kit to him. _You were supposed to make things right._

_We changed her fate and yours, _the Fates answer.

_I did not use the Watch so that I might see her suffer and die a second time! I want her to live. Save her, and save Kiku. And Kit — don't you dare let an innocent child needlessly suffer, you heartless bastards._

"I'm so sorry, lad," Arthur whispers into Kit's hair as he pulls the Watch from his pocket.

_You know not what you ask, Arthur of Spades._

"Change the Fates' design."

_Selfish man!_

Arthur, his heart breaking, squeezes his eyes shut.

_"Do it."_

.

.

**Author's notes (please feel free to skip):**

Taiwan and Seychelles are actually Hearts in Arte Stella, and Vietnam and Australia aren't part of the deck at all, but hey, new timeline! Everybody's a Spade this chapter, lolol.

Basically, baby!Australia is a combination of my younger brothers when they were growing up and my friend's son. One of my brothers tried to eat a garden snake once when he was a toddler, but thankfully my mom stopped him just in time.

Despite him getting a little huffy with Sey, it felt so weird to not have Arthur being mad or yelling at anyone this chapter, but then I realized why that was: His main (human) antagonist, Alfred, doesn't interact with him this chapter. Don't worry — they'll be back together soon. But Arthur might receive another antagonist or two as well. _(Oh ho ho…)_

Take care, and I'll see you soon!_  
_


	5. the magician

**Bed of Nails**

.

_v. the magician_

.

"Are you alright?"

Arthur carefully blinks his eyes open, squinting against the insufferable brightness.

"Sir?"

_I know that voice…_

Arthur turns his head toward the voice, and Marie comes into focus beside him, her green eyes filled with worry.

He brings his hand up and reaches for her, feeling as though he's underwater, as though each movement of his body was a sluggish struggle within the deep. She catches his hand and holds it.

Two realizations, neither of them eliciting an immediate reaction, dully come to him: First, she is alive, and second, his head hurts.

With a great effort he hauls himself up, cursing as the pain rushes to gather at one particular spot on the back of his head. Only his head feels caught underwater now, throbbing with each plundering slap of the waves, the rest of his limbs separating and floating away out to sea — as though he were drowning upside down, and — _fucking hell, gather your wits about you._

He squeezes his eyes shut, hissing at the pain.

"Careful, sir," Marie softly says, wrapping an arm about his shoulders to support him. "Not too fast, now — careful."

As he rubs at his eyes, she asks him to take a deep breath for her. The densely rich scent of sweet spices saturates his brain as he does so.

Spices, but beneath them, a hint of lavender.

"It worked," he whispers as he falls upon her, his arms weakly going around her. "You're safe."

And he had reason to believe it would work, to be confident the Fates would restore her to him a second time after doing so once before, but to actually have her before him yet again — breathing, _living_ — takes his breath away.

"Oh — " She shifts uncomfortably in his arms. "But — do you think you can stand? Come on, let's get you up."

She helps him to his feet, steadying him as he wobbles. His head still hurts; with each glance of his eyes, his brain sends out a sharp, stinging reprimand.

"Where are we?" he asks, holding his forehead.

He turns to look at her and starts. He hadn't noticed it before, but a large scar is slashed down the length of her cheek. Utterly unable to comprehend it, he can only stare at it.

_My poor darling — what has happened to her? When did it happen? How badly did it hurt her?_

And then, as his heart plummets like lead into his suddenly sour stomach: _Is it — is it because of something I did?_

She looks away, angling her head so that her hair might hide her cheek.

"Um, sir — "

_Why does she keep calling me that?_

"We're in my shop," she says. "Don't you remember?"

"Forgive me, but — " He shakes his head. Feeling as lost as a child, he reaches for her again. "I don't seem — to recall — "

She smiles kindly and takes his hand, giving it a friendly pat. "If you're not feeling well, I can run and go get a healer for you."

"No, thank you," he mumbles. "I am well. Or — I'm sure I _shall_ be, in a moment."

"Here," she says, leading him toward a table. Pulling out a chair for him, she places her hands upon his shoulders and gently persuades him to have a seat. "You sit down and let me go get you a glass of water, alright?"

He can't help himself — he numbly clutches at her hand, unwilling to be abandoned, not when his mind's in such a state of fumbling disarray, not when he's just found her again — _stay, stay, don't leave me again —_

"I'll be right back," she assures him. His fingers trail after hers as she slips away.

The shop — her shop? — is quiet, but familiar sounds drift in from beyond the four walls: The rhythmic clip-clop of horse hooves against cobblestone, the fishmonger calling out the day's specials. Children laughing.

(A small child with a cut across his nose and two strands of hair that refuse to lie flat, no matter how often his mother smooths them down —

Why can't Arthur recall the boy's name?)

The pain in his head, so jagged, so spiked, is finally ebbing into a steady, less debilitating ache, and Arthur finds the clarity of mind to look around him and take stock of his surroundings.

The shop is of medium size, being neither grand nor smallish. Wooden tables flanked with wooden chairs litter the floor; some tables are wide enough to accommodate ten people, others only two. Shadowgraphs and paintings adorn the walls, their subjects and positions lacking any sort of proper organization save for a charmingly eclectic sense of disunity. The windows of the shop are large and clear, letting in an extraordinary amount of sunlight Arthur is only now becoming comfortable with. The scent of chocolate, exotic spices, and freshly baked bread fill the air so pleasantly he assumes this is what people must mean when they say they feel _at home._

It's a _bakery,_ he suddenly realizes, and his heart swells with pride for her.

_She's finally got her bakery._

Marie returns, setting the glass of water on the table and taking the seat across from him.

"Drink," she says, pushing the glass toward him.

"What happened?" he asks after taking a sip.

"I'm not really sure." Her lips hesitantly quirk upward at the awkwardness of the situation, her eyes still unsure what to make of it all. "I went into the other room to take out the blueberry scones for you, and when I came back, you were sprawled out on the ground."

"Oh." He blushes. "How undignified."

"Please don't worry," she reassures him. "I'm just glad you're alright! What would I do if something ever happened to my favorite customer?"

_Customer?_

_Then —_

_She doesn't know me?_

"I always look forward to your weekly visits, you know," she continues, shyly glancing away.

Arthur tries to remind himself that the Fates have been supremely kind in allowing him an additional chance to change their destinies, but he feels the sick-sweet black smoke of betrayal rising up, nearly suffocating him. And perhaps it's for the best he is not currently in his right mind, for he would rage violently at the Fates if he were — to have once been married to her, but never have time to spend with her — to sit across the table from her now, the miles and miles between them _mocking_ him —

The bakery's door is thrown open, the bell above it ringing, and Arthur watches as Yao steps into the shop.

"It's alright, Yao," Marie says. "He's recovered and seems to be fine."

"Fine?" Yao shrieks. _"Fine?_ Ha! He won't be fine when _I _am through with him!"

He hurries over to them, slamming the (now unnecessary) smelling salts down upon the table.

"Just who do you think you are, scaring me like that!" he demands of Arthur, his nostrils flaring and his hair falling wildly out from its ponytail. "Hmm? _Hmm?_ I won't have it. I am far too old for this!"

Marie fondly scoffs, rolls her eyes. "Oh, _Yao._ You're not old at all."

"I _feel_ it, with all the worrying _this one_ puts me through."

He cuffs Arthur on the back of the head.

"I _say,_ Yao!" Arthur shouts, swatting his hand away. "I just took a_ most_ humiliating fall, and you decide to _hit me on the head?"_

Yao narrows his eyes at Arthur before going to stand behind him. "Another bump on the head or five is just what you deserve for making me worry, _young master."_

Scowling all the while, Yao checks Arthur's head over, running his fingers through the messy hair and clicking his tongue disapprovingly.

"What do you think?" Marie asks. "Will he survive?"

"Yes," Yao finally concedes.

"You say that almost as though you were disappointed," Arthur mutters.

Marie giggles. "You know, with the way you two go on, sometimes I don't know who's the master and who's the valet."

"The truth shall be revealed in good time, my Lady." Yao hauls Arthur to his feet. "But I really must get him home now and have him rest."

"Of course. Don't let me keep you."

"I am sorry — I simply cannot take him _anywhere."_

Yao is walking him toward the door, and Arthur, realizing he's about to be parted from her (So soon? Too soon), panics.

"Yao — I'm quite well, really. There's no need for us to be off so soon."

"I am sure you have already overstayed your welcome." Yao's fingers tighten around Arthur's arm. "You are trying my patience as well as hers."

"But — half an hour — " Arthur pleads, glancing over his shoulder at Marie.

_"Come along,_ young master," Yao says, his tone signifying an end to the discussion. "There are things requiring our attention back home that cannot be delayed any longer, bump on the head or no bump on the head."

"Oh!" Marie suddenly cries. "Wait!"

They turn to look at her, watching as she jumps out of her chair.

"Don't either of you move!" she says as she dashes off, disappearing into a room separated from the main one by a little display counter. "I'll be right back!"

She eventually reemerges, carrying a round, pink box decorated with white polka dots. Something small, wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with a blue ribbon, sits atop the box.

"I don't want you forgetting your scones," she explains, handing the box to Arthur. "Can't have you come all this way and faint for nothing, now, can we? And wrapped in the white paper is a waffle, on the house, to help you feel better quicker."

She smiles up at him, and Arthur's heart skips a beat.

"I'll see you next week!" she calls out to them as Yao, muttering under his breath, finally manages to drag Arthur away.

* * *

Yao immediately begins fussing over Arthur once they've settled into their carriage and are moving down the street, tells him to cover up with the blanket, to watch his head, to loosen his tie, _on second thought, it's warm outside, forget the blanket and take off your jacket instead, goodness gracious, young man, do I have to think of everything for you?_

Arthur smiles as Yao yanks his arms out of his jacket, for he's missed him terribly and it feels like ages since he last saw him. When Arthur suddenly found himself without Yao in the previous timeline, he felt oddly incomplete.

(Yao, always so good and so loyal — Yao, who after a remarkably peaceful, uneventful rule as Regent, would have handed the kingdom over to Arthur when he reached his majority without incident or ill will. Yao, who let Arthur cling to his robes after his parents died, who looked him over head to toe the day he accidentally fell out of the apple tree in the orchard.

Arthur has always needed Yao, has always been fond of him, but never has the thread connecting him to Arthur's heart tugged in quite the manner it is now.)

Arthur chuckles, which only serves to infuriate Yao.

"Oh, _yes,"_ Yao crows, carefully folding Arthur's jacket, "laugh all you want — _ha, ha, ha-ha._ Because _Yao_ will be the responsible one, _Yao_ will be the mature one, _Yao_ will — "

"Dear Yao," Arthur says with a genuine smile. "How you've managed to put up with me all these years shall forever be beyond my understanding. But believe me when I say that I am grateful — for everything. Truly."

He opens the pink and white box. Nestled inside are a dozen of what he's sure are the most delectable-looking blueberry scones he's ever seen.

"But for now," he says, thrusting the box at Yao, "do have a scone and kindly shut the hell up."

Yao, unmoved, haughtily looks down his nose at the scones.

"Oh, _honestly," _Arthur huffs, "we could do this all afternoon, we're both so absurdly stubborn. _Take a damn scone."_

Giving in to his horrible sweet tooth, Yao relents and takes one from the box.

"I am still angry with you," he mutters, settling against his seat. "Don't think you can pacify me with sweets. To _faint,_ and not even think to warn me about it first. Unbelievable!"

They enjoy their scones in comfortable silence, the carriage rocking them over the streets. Looking out the window, Arthur recognizes he is once again in Spades.

Yao leans over and snatches a second scone.

"This one is because I will more than likely have to sit with you throughout the night and monitor you as you sleep, due to your probable and extremely ill-timed concussion."

When he snatches another: "And _this_ one is because you will not be able to lift anything heavier than a spoon for a few days."

The third: "And this one is because I will probably get no thanks at all for my suffering. You will probably go out and get another concussion just to spite me."

Yao eventually makes enough excuses as to why he needs more scones that he ends up with the entire box of them.

Arthur, munching on his crisp, golden waffle, finds he doesn't mind at all.

* * *

After looking himself and Yao over, Arthur has come to the conclusion that in this timeline, he is decidedly middle class.

He's no longer wearing his common clothes, but neither is he wearing his fine, royal attire. He looks as though he could be a prosperous shop owner, or perhaps a fashionable gentleman of the landed gentry. Yao is even wearing what appears to be a manservant's attire, and upon further inspection, he finds their carriage is not the opulent royal coach he's so used to riding in.

Nothing makes him so happy, though, as looking at his left hand and seeing no ring upon his finger.

_She may not know me, _he thinks, reaching into his pocket to make sure the Watch is there,_ but there's still a chance for us to be together._

* * *

The shock of a new time (and quite literally falling into it), of finding Marie alive and Yao once again at his side, the swaying of the carriage, the fullness in his belly from his delicious waffle — all these factors combine to lull Arthur into a light sleep.

Arthur's roused from his nap when the carriage comes to a final halt. He stretches and sighs, looking out the window, and —

Surely he's still asleep.

He blinks and rubs his eyes.

This cannot be right at all.

"What are we doing here?" he asks, his mouth going dry. "Why have we stopped at Spades Castle?"

Yao gives him an unimpressed look.

"You may pretend to be someone you are not when you are with her, Your Majesty, but don't get _too_ wrapped up in your fantasy."

* * *

Once he realized the awful truth, Arthur's heart hardened in a way it hadn't done since before he met Marie.

"You must hold still, Your Majesty!" Yao scolds him after they've snuck into his private rooms from the stables.

_(Your Majesty — still the Queen of Spades, then.)_

"I _can't!"_ Arthur irritably whines. "Not when you're _bloody well strangling _me with my own neckcloth."

Yao grabs another neckcloth from within Arthur's chest of drawers. "You are such a _baby."_

_(My chest of drawers, my bed, my desk, my wash basin — everything is as I left it back in the original time. Nothing has changed.)_

"Have a care, Yao. I shan't always be in the mood to put up with your nonsense."

"Oh, _no,"_ Yao dramatically says, feigning fear. "Not me and my _nonsense,_ when I'm _only_ the person who keeps your greatest secret for you, the person who helps you keep up this stupid charade. Of course _I_ am the one who needs to watch his words, for I'm _only_ the person who procures bourgeois clothes for you and pretends to be your servant while you play suitor to that poor, innocent girl."

"Yao — that hurts — "

"I'm _only_ the person who sneaks you in and out of the castle, who makes excuses for you when King Alfred can't find you. I'm _only_ the person whose job is on the line for you. But _oh, no,_ you are not in mood for any of _my_ nonsense."

Arthur narrows his eyes. "That sounds dangerously like blackmail."

Yao's expression is brutal, his mouth a bitter, tight line.

"No," he says after a moment, loosening the too-tight neckcloth. He grabs a brush from the dressing table and begins brushing Arthur's jacket. "It is most certainly not blackmail. But I _do_ think I have earned the right to talk to you however I please and tie your neckcloth as tightly as I wish without hearing you complaining about it. I am sticking my neck out for you. I think the least you could do is loan me yours for a little bit."

He opens the top drawer of the chest of drawers and, after rifling through Arthur's things, pulls out his wedding ring.

_(Still married to Alfred. But of course.)_

Yao hands him the ring, and though it makes him unbearably sick at heart, Arthur can do nothing but take it.

"Come along, Your Majesty," Yao gently says, patting Arthur's shoulder and looking exhausted. "You must put away Arthur Kirkland for the time being. The only Arthur allowed here is Arthur ex Britannia."

* * *

"Hey, Arthur!" Alfred cheerily greets Arthur as the latter is on his way to his library.

Getting no response from Arthur, he tries again: "So, uh — how are you today?"

And finally: "Well — um — you look well, I guess?"

Alfred brings his hand up to awkwardly rub at the back of his neck. Arthur catches a glimpse of his wedding band as he does so, and an idea comes to him.

_The Parliament would never grant me a divorce. But perhaps, if the King himself willed it so — if the King demanded it —_

"Alfred — have you heard the story of the Lady Who Cannot Be Moved?"

"No, actually, can't say that I have."

"She lives in a village to the north. They say she never smiles, but the man who is finally able to make her smile shall be the one to wed her."

"Huh." Alfred tilts his head to the side, considering. "I wonder why she never smiles, though. Poor lady — that ain't no way to go through life."

"You ought to go and investigate, see why any subject of yours should be so unhappy as to never smile. You might consider it part of your…royal duty."

"Royal duty, huh?"

"Perhaps you are just the chap to make her smile."

After a few moments wherein Alfred looks as though he's actually considering doing it, he laughs.

"Aw, no way, man," he says, batting away the suggestion with his hand. "That's silly."

Arthur clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides.

"Is it?" he asks, his voice husky.

"Yeah, I mean — _dude._ I'm _already_ married, and I was always taught that marriage is forever, you know? It's a pretty big commitment — when I was growing up, Granny and Gramps would always tell me it was never something to take lightly. Besides, I've got too much on my mind to go adventurin' after some sad lady. Like the pirates. Which is actually why I was looking for you in the first — "

"Do as you wish with the pirates," Arthur quietly says, walking away. "I care not."

* * *

After locking himself away in his library, Arthur spends the rest of the afternoon and early evening scouring his history books for information. If anything capable of helping him understand where and when the Fates have thrown him this time is to be found, surely it would be within their dusty pages.

Arthur checks all the dates over three times, all the names, all the facts, but he cannot find anything within Spades' history that differs significantly from the original time. The greatest of the Fates' changes to this time, he concludes, must be centered on Marie.

And upon opening a drawer in his desk, he finds a pile of letters from Kiku, the last of which was postmarked only a few days ago. Arthur pores over them, traces the ink with his fingers, reveling in the consolation that his friend is alive. Oddly, Kiku's letters are neither as lengthy nor as numerous as they previously were, but this in no way lessens Arthur's joy at discovering such good news.

Good news quickly followed by a wave of guilt.

_Is that the price for keeping Kiku alive? _he thinks, wondering how much physical and emotional pain Marie's scar has cost her.

But just as the edge of the sea returns to pummel the shore again and again, one bad turn deserves another, and the first wave of guilt is always followed by a succession of others.

Kit — that was the lad's name.

And if he had not been so damnably weak as to allow the boy and his mother to _die —_

Arthur shakes his head, the ticking of the Watch too loud to bear. He takes a deep breath, straightens his spine, stands up a little taller. It would not do to wrestle with sorrow now, to let the cobwebs of self-pity weave themselves into a cloak of mourning. The most important thing is that Marie and Kiku are alive.

(And as long as Marie is alive, there is still hope for Kit — somewhere, someday.)

* * *

This is the first memory the Fates reveal to him:

He and Yao were traveling through the city together when one of their carriage wheels broke. To pass the time while it was being fixed, Arthur wandered into a little bakery across the street. Marie didn't recognize him as the Queen, instead mistaking him for a merchant or gentleman, and he was so smitten with her — her disarming manner, her delightful conversation, such a breath of fresh air compared to the stilted goings on at court — that he played along.

"But how can you _possibly_ know if blueberry scones are your all-time favorite," she asked him, "when you haven't ever tried an apricot one, or raspberry, or my newest invention — _Death by Chocolate Cream Scone."_

"What on earth is a Death by Chocolate Cream scone?" he asked, by equal turns intimidated and intrigued.

"I make them on Wednesdays." She winked at him. "You'll just have to come visit me next week and see for yourself."

The following Wednesday he returned and admitted the Death by Chocolate Cream scone was delicious. The Wednesday following that, he decided he did not care for apricot scones, but enjoyed the raspberry a week later.

He came back every week to try a new scone and with every visit he fell a little more in love, but there's a sordid air about all this he can't ignore. His love for her may be true, but his identity is not. He's never lied to her before and he feels like a villain, but he's in far too deep: He lies to her so that he may continue to visit her; he visits her because he needs her; he needs her because he loves her.

_There's a name for what this is,_ his ancestor rails at him, but Arthur can't help himself, and that badgering ghost has always been easy to ignore. Now is no different.

* * *

In the time when they were married, Marie told him of how she'd heard bakeries were busiest during the early morning and early afternoons. This has proven true, for when the bells of the Time Shrine toll three hours past noon, her business is more often than not finished for the day, and Arthur has her all to himself.

"Hmm," she says one Wednesday afternoon, rummaging through a box containing her great-grandmother's hand-written recipes, the dust dancing in the air as she does so. "What kind of scones should I make you next?"

Arthur, sitting at what quickly became _his_ chair at her counter, doesn't even hesitate: "Blueberry."

"No!" she merrily laughs. "I need to invent a _new_ kind for you to try next week. I don't want you to get bored and stop visiting me."

"I would never stop visiting you."

"Not even if I made you _raison_ scones?" she mischievously asks, knowing how much he dislikes raisons.

He visibly shudders, and she throws her head back and laughs.

"Oh, but you've barely touched your coffee," she notices. "Did it get cold? Do you need me to go warm it up for you?"

The latest item on her never-ending list of things she wanted him to try — _because you never know when you might find your new favorite!_ — coffee was something he'd only vaguely heard of before. He knew it was the drink of choice in Diamonds amongst the fashionably lazy and the fashionably broke, but he'd never tried it until today.

Arthur likes sweets, but he cannot abide too much richness, and though she assured him coffee was a perfectly bitter compliment to the sweetness, he finds he still infinitely prefers tea.

"You are very kind, madam, but — " He turns up his nose. "Thank you, no."

"Well, I'm just proud of you for trying it — I know you and your stick-in-the-mud ways, Mr. Kirkland. But at least this way, when you're an old man lying on your deathbed, you won't be thinking, _Gosh, I wish I had tried that coffee Marie told me about."_

He chuckles. "To be sure."

"My conscience is clear then." She taps the stack of recipes against the counter, evening the edges, and places them back in the box. "How about I get you a cup of tea?"

He nods, because in this timeline, she makes him the best cup of tea he's ever had.

He watches her as she goes through her cabinets, picking out her finest cup and saucer for him, and lets out a little sigh at how at ease she looks, how much she seems to enjoy this new life.

She's told him the tall windows are a nuisance during the frost because they let in too much cold air, but the sunlight drips in on this honey-warm afternoon, coating the front room in layers of sepia Arthur recognizes from his favorite timeworn books. _How is your niece, Mrs. Hammit? Have some cheesecake and tell me all about her adventures in Clubs._ All of Spades could be going to Hell outside, but inside Marie's cozy little bakery all is comfortable and familiar, all problems can be cured with a smile, a laugh, and a thick layer of chocolate ganache. _Admiral Fairfax, you look exhausted, you sit down and start on your torte and tell me all about your day._

Arthur pulls the Watch from his pocket, runs his thumb over the glass face.

_She's so happy here. I swear I shall make this time the right one._

_"Ooh,_ that's lovely," Marie says, setting the saucer and cup of steaming tea before him. "Is it a family heirloom? It doesn't look like a modern design."

"Erm — yes." Arthur stuffs the Watch back into his pocket. "I suppose you could call it that."

She pushes a plate with a blueberry scone on it toward him. "Eat up, stick-in-the-mud."

* * *

Wednesday next:

"Who is that?" Arthur innocently asks, pointing at the shadowgraph hanging on the wall, next to her colorful collection of aprons. "One of your many admirers, I suppose?"

(He feels like a cad, for he knows full well who it really is.)

Marie, cradling a large red bowl in her arm and stirring its contents, stills her hand.

"That's actually my big brother."

"Ah, but of course. How silly of me. I can see the resemblance now that I know."

There's something not quite right about Willem's portrait, but for the life of him, Arthur can't put his finger on it.

"I don't get to see him all that often, though," Marie sighs as she continues stirring. "He still lives back home, in Hearts."

"Judging from the look of his uniform, I would wager he's some sort of soldier?"

_"May-be,"_ she sings.

She sets the bowl down and leans across the counter toward him, her elfin eyes sparkling.

"Would you believe me," she whispers, drawing him in to her secret, into _her,_ "if I told you my brother was the Six of Hearts?"

He'd been tracing the flecks of yellow amongst the green in her eyes. Almost as an afterthought, he manages a soft _oh._

"He is the bodyguard for the Queen of Hearts, then?"

"Mm-hmm." She grins and bites her lip, her eyes never leaving his, because her stick-in-the-mud is adorable when he blushes, and she's noticed he tends to blush quite a bit around her.

She thinks he's adorable _all the time,_ really — and, she's noticed, his sharp profile is impossibly handsome. And the way he looks at her sometimes —

Pushing herself off the counter, she picks up her bowl and resumes stirring.

"And my big bro looks very smart in his royal uniform," she adds. "Anytime he visits and we walk around town together, he's always a big hit with the ladies."

Trading her large stirring spoon for two smaller ones, she dips them in the bowl and offers one to Arthur.

"Hmm," she thoughtfully hums, licking the other. "Good?"

"Very," he says, handing his clean spoon back to her.

"Oh, you always say that," she says, a nervous giggle escaping her as their fingers touch. "I think it needs just a _bit_ more vanilla, though…"

She grabs a large brown bottle from a shelf above the sink and pours it into the bowl without measuring it.

"Does your brother enjoy being the Six of Hearts?" he asks her.

"Very much. He's very fond of the queen. Sometimes — " She chuckles and shakes her head as she stirs in the vanilla. "Sometimes, from the way he talks, it sounds like he has a crush on the Queen. But that's just between you and me, okay?"

"Of course."

_Kiku, you sly thing, _he thinks._ No wonder you hardly write or visit me anymore — you spend all your time with Willem. But I sincerely wish the two of you all possible happiness._

"You referred to Hearts as back home. What brought you to Spades?"

"Well…" She stops stirring and glances away. "It's kind of a long story, and I don't want to bore you."

"You shan't bore me," he insists. "You couldn't bore me even if you tried."

She smiles at that, but still dips her head and lets her hair fall in her face, letting it cover the scar on her cheek.

And that's when Arthur realizes what's wrong with the shadowgraph of Willem — the scar above his eye is missing.

_Why does she have a scar, and her brother does not?_

The bell over the door rings. Yao steps inside.

"It's time we were on our way, _Your Majesty,"_ he says, giving Arthur an exaggerated bow and gesturing out the door.

"I do not need to be scolded as though I were still a child, Yao."

"I am not scolding you as though you were a child. I am scolding you as though you were a grown man about to be late for a previous engagement."

Arthur and Marie look at each other.

"Looks like the story will have to wait," she says, genuinely sad to see him go.

"But I _would_ like to hear it."

"You know…" She looks him up and down. "I don't think anyone's ever been as interested in me as you are."

A worried look crosses Arthur's face.

She smiles. "I don't mind, though."

She pushes a red box with pink stripes across the counter to him. "Don't worry, you'll hear the story one day. But until then, don't forget your scones."

* * *

Arthur can't help himself — one Wednesday afternoon he reaches out to gently brush a smudge of flour from her cheek, his fingertips caressing her scar.

Startled, her stirring spoon clatters to the floor as she flinches away. She stares at him, shocked, distressed, _hurt._

Regardless of time and place, Arthur has never known her to be afraid of anything. But _now_ — that his wonderful, clever girl should so often feel the need to hide behind the curtain of her hair — that she should turn her head slightly away whilst talking to customers — that she should always pillow her left hand against her cheek to cover it — and that _he_ should be the cause of it all —

It makes Arthur so incensed that the red trips up his spine and floods his eyes, snakes down into his fingers and makes them tremble with rage.

"You stay _right there,"_ he brusquely orders her. "Do not move from that spot."

Bewildered, she can only nod as he makes to exit the shop.

He returns not ten minutes later, a long green ribbon from the haberdasher's across the street in his hand.

"Turn around and gather your hair."

She immediately does so. He sets about looping the ribbon around her head as a hairband to keep it out of her face, and finishes by tying the ends of the ribbon into a large bow.

_"There,"_ he says as her hair falls about her shoulders. "Much better." He comes to stand before her, continuing in his gruff manner: "You are not to ever hide behind your hair again — do you understand?"

She nods.

"Your face is — well, it's uncommonly pretty, is what it is. And if I _ever_ see you hiding it away again, it shall vex me greatly."

She blinks. "You think I'm pretty?"

"Well — " A blush spreads across his face. "That is — I wanted — what I meant to _say _was — "

The smile she gives him illuminates her entire face. Full, beautiful, and just like her old smiles.

"Thank you," she says, throwing her arms around him.

* * *

The following Wednesday:

"If you dislike this man so much," Marie asks him after he delivers yet another stinging tirade against Alfred, "why do you spend so much time with him?"

Arthur accidentally bites his tongue as he chews his mouthful of lemon bar.

She continues wiping down her counter. "It's my philosophy that you should only spend time with people who make you feel good. Life is short, you know. Why spend it with people who only end up putting you in bad mood?"

"I do not interact with him of my volition. I am _forced _to spend time with him. We…work together."

"Oh. That _can_ be hard sometimes." She looks up at him. "What is it you do, exactly?"

"I inherited a family business," he slowly lies, carefully measuring his words.

(The lying hasn't gotten any easier. On the contrary — it gets harder with every visit.)

She smiles, though it doesn't reach her eyes. "Something in your blood, then, mmm?"

"You could say that."

When she's finished wiping down the counter, she continues cleaning, stacking bowls in the sink, tossing washcloths into a little wooden basket. Keeping her eyes downcast and her mouth downturned all the while.

"I'm afraid I've been remiss," Arthur says, guiltily watching her. "I've been blithering on the entire time, complaining about _my_ life, but something is very obviously wrong with you."

"Oh — _no,_ I'll get over it once I've moped a little bit. It's nothing important, really."

"If it's important to you, it's important to me."

She smiles, leaning across the counter and squeezing his arm. "That's very sweet of you. I'm just sorry that I decided to mope on a day you came to visit me."

He doesn't like seeing her like this, so far removed from her naturally cheerful self. If she only knew how much he depended on her smile.

"I've an idea," he says, rising from his seat and coming around the corner of the counter.

"No, I will _not_ order any of that nasty brown sludge for you. Stop asking."

"I — " He blinks. "Now, _you see here,"_ he huffs. "We've discussed this before and you are very obviously _wrong_ in your unnecessarily adamant dislike of it. Say another word against it and I shall be inclined take it as a — a personal affront."

She sticks her tongue out at him.

(And he wants so _desperately_ to kiss her sometimes. She would stick her tongue out at him in their original time and he'd grab her jaw, bring her face to his — )

He drags a stool out from the corner and sets it before her.

"Sit."

"What are y— "

"Woman — _sit."_

She sits, watching as he goes about her little front kitchenette, slamming the cabinet doors as he goes, setting the lid down on the sugar bowl a little too forcefully.

(She knows her stick-in-the-mud can be a little sensitive and moody sometimes, but _really,_ nothing makes her shudder like that brown stuff.)

With a clatter, he sets a cup of tea and a poorly-sliced lemon bar in front of her.

"It's only — " He makes his way back to his seat. "I notice you taking care of everyone else, and listening to _their_ problems, but I do not think any of them have ever taken the time to ask _you_ about _your_ problems."

"Thank you," she says, touched.

"Though you hardly deserve it. Nasty brown sludge, _indeed. _And if you don't take a moment to rest, the quality of your sweets shall suffer. Really, I'm simply doing you a — a professional favor."

She eats her lemon bar and sips her tea, and at length she says: "I had a letter from my brother today."

"Not bad news, I hope?"

"No, not really, just — he was supposed to come visit me today, but he sent the letter by express to tell me he wouldn't be able to make it."

She shuffles the crumbs around on her plate with her fork, rests her chin on her hand. "And it wouldn't be so _bad,_ really — I mean, it's happened before, and considering what he does, I always understand — but we were supposed to go out together and see a play tonight, and I haven't been out and done anything fun in _ages."_

"A play?"

She nods. "Didn't you see them setting up for it in the town square today? It's called _The Life and Death of Hieronymus de Vries, _and — " for the first time all day, her eyes light up — "it's supposed to be _amazing,_ because it's written by _Cesare Cagliostro,_ and he's my favorite, favorite author — his heroes and his heroines and his plots are all so great, and he makes me so proud to be from Hearts, and — the play did so well back home that the Wild Rose acting troupe here in Spades has picked it up. Tonight is going to be their first performance."

"Then — allow me to escort you to the play."

Her eyes widen. "Really?"

"Really."

_"Really_ really?"

He nods.

"Let's leave now, then!" she cries, nearly jumping off the stool. "Just let me run and go get my coat!"

She runs up the stairs to her little living area, calling back down to him: "We'll be early, but we can walk around the bazaar together before the show starts, can't we?"

"That would be brilliant," he calls back up to her.

"Oh! Arthur!"

"Yes?"

"Would you turn the sign on the door for me so it says I'm closed?"

He does so. Turning, he watches her fly back down the stairs, buttoning her coat as she hurries along, and laughs at her excitement.

"But — what about Yao?" she asks, stopping before a mirror to make sure her hair ribbon's still in good place. "Will he be angry with you? He's always stealing you away from me to go to some appointment…"

"Actually — I've told him his presence was no longer necessary when I visit you, and I rode here on my own horse rather than bringing the carriage."

"Oh, dear. How mad was Yao when you told him?"

"Exceedingly so."

"Well, he's usually more bark than bite, and it's nothing an extra scone or two won't smooth over. I'll put three extra peach scones in with your blueberry ones just for him."

"Make it five, and you're likely to have him wrapped around your finger."

She laughs. "I'd rather have _you _wrapped around my finger — you're much cuter when you blush than he is."

Of course Arthur's face turns red at that.

"You're all mine tonight, Mr. Kirkland," she says, looping her arm through his. "Come on — let's go see how much trouble we can get into without our chaperone around."

* * *

Arthur and Marie have so much fun wandering around the bazaar together that before they know it, the sun has started to set. They race down to the square so as to procure themselves good seats for the play.

"Are you a fan of Cesare Cagliostro?" Marie asks once they've taken their seats.

"Yes. _Giacomo's Daughter_ is my favorite play of his."

"Good answer." She smiles, bumping her arm against his. "Maybe it's for the best that my brother couldn't come after all. When I told him about the play, he said he'd never heard of him before."

Arthur chuckles. "Willem doesn't seem the artistic type."

"Do you mean — " She looks up at him, confused. "Have you met him before?"

"Ah — _no — "_

Inwardly cursing, he snaps his mouth shut before he has the chance to dig his hole any deeper.

"Oh…" She turns her attention to the stage and watches the actors as they prepare for the show. "I didn't realize I'd told you his name, is all."

"No, actually," Arthur slowly says, "you didn't. His name is on the shadowgraph of him hanging in the bakery."

"The writing is so small, though." She digs into their bag of fried Logres puffs and pulls one out. "You must have really good eyes."

She offers him the bag, and he takes out a fried puff for himself.

"Yes," he says, "the best."

* * *

As they watch the first half of the play, their arms and legs brush together as they excitedly whisper back and forth to each other: _Does not Eustacia remind you of Claudia? Maybe you should think about wearing an eye patch…_

During the intermission, they are discussing whether Cagliostro is better at writing comedy (dying is easy, Marie argues, it's getting someone to laugh that's hard) or tragedy (which, Arthur counters, teaches one a great deal more about life as it truly _is_ rather than how it _should be)_ while the other members of the audience mingle to pass the time.

And then, above the buzzing din of the crowd, someone suddenly shouts Arthur's name.

Snapping his head up, Arthur sees the very last person he expected to encounter tonight: Feliciano Vargas, the Jack of Hearts.

Every muscle in Arthur's body tightens.

"Arthur! Oh, _Arthur!"_ Feliciano shouts as he waves his arm and bounds over to them. "Good evening, Arthur!"

Arthur's smile is tight. "Feliciano. What are _you_ doing here."

"I came to watch the show tonight, silly!" The boy smiles so widely the wrinkles at the edge of his eyes show, roads marked on his face from years of good humor. "I've seen it performed plenty of times at home, but they stopped performing it, and it's so good I wanted to see it again. I didn't know you were coming to watch it tonight, too — what a happy surprise!"

Arthur grits his teeth. "Yes."

"You should've told me you would be here, because then I could've sat with you and kept you company. There's a really sad part later on and what if it makes you cry and you need a shoulder to cry on? I've got two shoulders, and they're both very good for crying on!"

"He can cry on my shoulder if he wants," Marie affably offers, leaning around Arthur's arm.

She was hidden from Feliciano's sight by Arthur's profile, but now that he's seen her, Feliciano's eyes bug out and his mouth drops open as he stares at her. No other mortal would be capable of going so long without blinking, but after years of practice (and years and years of pretty ladies), Feliciano's become a master of it.

"Oh, Arthur," he begs, dancing on his toes and flapping his hands, _"Arthur,_ hurry up and introduce me to your pretty lady friend so that I can kiss her hand and write her poems and send her flowers and slay dragons for her and make — "

"As if _you_ would even be capable of picking up a sword fit for slaying dragons with in the first place," Arthur sneers. "Let alone slay a dragon with it."

"I could if you told me her name, because love gives you wings!"

Marie giggles, but it only makes Arthur groan.

"Arthur, _please?"_ Feliciano whines, drawing out the word. "Please, please, _please? _I hate it when I see a pretty lady but don't know her name! It's so awkward to think of her later and have no name to call her by. You can't just go and tell someone, _I saw the prettiest face today!_ because then they'll ask, _Who was it? I might know her and could get you a date,_ but the thing is, there are so many, many pretty ladies in the world — how is your friend going to know exactly which one it was? Because seriously, have you seen the world lately? It's a good time to be alive, my friend, because it's full of pretty ladies _everywhere!"_

"I don't care a fig about _those_ women."

"You don't?" In his failure to understand, Feliciano's face crumbles. "But… how can you not care about all the pretty ladies?" He shrugs. "Ah, well. That just means more ladies for _me_ to sweep off their feet!"

"My name is Marie."

"Oh, how lovely! And let me count — yes, two syllables. Very easy to put into song. Marie. _Ma-rie."_

"Yes, yes," Arthur testily grouses. "You may return to your seat now, Feliciano, as the intermission — "

But Feliciano's already moving, already squeezing himself into their row and wedging himself between the two of them.

_"Ah,"_ he contentedly sighs, lacing his fingers together and stretching his arms. He looks at Marie and wiggles his eyebrows. "I've finally found it — the best seat in the house!"

He takes Marie's hand, kissing it one, two, three times. "Buona sera, bellissima! My name is Feliciano Vargas and I am the Jack of Hearts."

"That is quite — " _enough,_ Arthur was about to say, but thinks better of it. If Feliciano is preoccupied with romancing a pretty woman, there's less chance for him to blow Arthur's cover.

Marie smiles. "It's very nice to meet you, Feliciano."

"Please, bella, call me Feli — everybody else does. Well, except for my brother, and except for King Ludwig, but you don't know them yet. But the names they have for me aren't very nice and shouldn't be repeated in polite company. But yes — I would prefer it if Feli was the name that came out of your pretty mouth!"

_"Watch it,"_ Arthur warns.

"Ah, I'm sorry Arthur. You know…" Feliciano taps his chin with a finger. "Sometimes I wonder if I go on about pretty ladies too much."

"You?" Arthur rolls his eyes. _"Never."_

"Well, I haven't ever gotten slapped, so there's that."

"Haven't gotten slapped _yet,"_ Arthur corrects under his breath.

"But I just really, really think that pretty ladies should be told they're pretty every single day, you know? Men, too! Let's not leave them out. But I know from experience most of them don't like to be told they're pretty. _Eh._ But _I_ sure would like to be told I was pretty! Because who doesn't like to get compliments? Compliments make me feel light and happy all day long. And there's something complimentable about everyone, I think — don't you agree, bella?"

"Yes, of course."

"Like me — I have my Grandpa's crooked nose, and then one time my brother got mad and punched me in the face and made it even _worse,_ but I also have really nice, shiny hair and nice, straight teeth. And I'm not even ashamed of my crooked nose anymore, like I used to be, because it's just another part of me, you know?"

Marie, unsure if Feliciano's eager, numerous compliments to her were actually sincere, was on the verge of being put off by him before. But now, she's thoroughly convinced he has a good heart. Maybe he's a little _too _excitable, but there's nothing wrong with being exuberant about life. Maybe, for all her talk about how short life is, she could take away something from the boy.

Feliciano frowns. "But you know, when it comes down to it, _I'm_ not married — not that I know of, at least, a-ha! So I don't know why you won't let me flirt with your lady friend, Arthur. Don't hog her when you're already — "

"Feliciano!" Arthur quickly interjects. "Tell Marie about her brother."

"Yes," Marie agrees, "if you wouldn't mind, that is. My brother Will is the Six of Hearts. Do you know him?"

"Oh, yes, yes! I know Will! Kind of a quiet guy, but that's alright, I don't mind doing most of the talking for him. He's a good listener, and the world will always need listeners. I was so scared of him when I first met him, but now I kind of like him. Though I'm still scared of him. That hasn't gone away. _Eh."_

"How has he been doing lately? He was supposed to come with me to the show tonight but sent word that he couldn't make it."

"Ah, yes. Ludwig and Kiku were summoned at the last minute to some debate or something in the Chambers, and Will had to go because he's got to go wherever Kiku goes. He didn't want to go because he said he was meeting you tonight, and he tried to find a way to keep Kiku at the castle, but it was impossible."

"Oh, I see."

"Yeah. He doesn't talk a lot but when he _does_ talk, he talks mostly about you. He loves you very much, bella. I wish _my_ brother would talk about _me_ like he was proud of me, but all he does is yell at me and tell me to shut up…but he _does_ eat my cooking, and I've heard him admit that my cooking is better than his, even though I wasn't actually supposed to hear that. So there's that."

"How do you two know each other?" Marie asks, looking from Arthur to Feliciano and back.

"Oh, that's easy!" Feliciano says. "Bella, don't you know that Arthur's — "

"An old friend!" Arthur nervously shouts, a little louder than is strictly necessary. "Feliciano and I have known each other for years."

"Well, yes, that is true," Feliciano continues, "but Arthur, you know we first met the day Queen Kiku — "

"Was crowned. Yes. I remember it perfectly. Now, if you'll excuse us, I think I hear the trumpet call for the end of the intermission."

Feliciano cocks his head to the side, listening.

"Ah, you are right!" He rises from his seat and maneuvers his way out to the center aisle. "This is goodbye, but only for now! I will see you later, Arthur. I hope you enjoy the rest of the show! And bella — "

He blows Marie a dramatic kiss. "It was so nice meeting you! I hope you dream of me the way I am destined to dream of you tonight!"

Marie waves as Feliciano scampers off. "It was nice meeting you, too, Feli!"

"You must forgive him," Arthur says, feeling utterly disheveled by their encounter. He laces his fingers together in his lap, willing them to stop trembling. "I'm sure that, were one to look inside his brain, one would find nothing but thousands upon thousands of cats. His mouth is unable to herd them all."

"No," Marie giggles as the curtain on the stage is pulled back, heralding the start of Act Four. "I liked him very much."

* * *

Shortly after the beginning of the fourth act, Marie excuses herself and leaves her seat. Arthur watches her as she goes, making sure she's out of sight before he gets up from his seat as well.

He walks around the edge of the square, searching for Feliciano in the crowd. Eventually he comes across the boy standing off to the side of the stage, in the wings, and close to tears.

"Oh, no, _no!"_ he laments, holding his head in his hands, and then when he sees Arthur: "Oh, _Arthur!_ Arthur, come and see — they don't know what they're doing! They're not stressing the right syllables and their blocking isn't right at all…"

"Feliciano — "

"It's a _travesty,_ is what it is!"

"Listen to me!" Arthur orders, grabbing Feliciano's arm and pulling him aside. "There is something I must ask of you."

"Oh." Feliciano blinks, the syllables and blocking forgotten. "Sure, what is it?"

"I need you not to tell anyone about what you've seen tonight."

"But, um…I can't tell _anyone?_ Because I've seen a lot tonight, and what if someone asks me, _How was your night, Feli?_ What am I supposed to tell them?"

"No, you _idiot,_ I mean — I mean about _me and Marie."_

"But you were just sitting together, and that's not a crime — not that I know of, at least. Because if it were — _a-ha_ — let me tell you about how much trouble _I'd_ be in — "

"It — it's not like that."

"Oh, so it was…a date?"

"I — well — yes, I suppose you could call it that."

Feliciano's eyes widen. "But — _Arthur — "_

He leans in close and whispers: "You're _married,_ though."

_"Yes,_ I _know,_ you prat." Arthur drops his gaze and sighs. "As I am every day made well aware."

"Does King Alfred know?"

_"Of course he doesn't know!_ No one does save for you and Yao."

"Oh, wow. That kinda makes me feel special."

"Feliciano, this is very important. If anyone were to find out — if word should reach Alfred or Willem or _anyone_ — do you understand what I'm saying?"

Feliciano nods. "Yes, I do, and you can count on me. But…_why,_ though?"

"Because — " Arthur lifts his hands and drops them in a helpless gesture. "Because I'm in love with her."

"Oh…_Arthur…"_

"I am." Arthur hangs his head. "Completely, madly, ardently in love with her. I have never felt for anyone the smallest portion of what I feel for her. I know it's hopeless, but — " His voice breaking, he swallows thickly. "If you only knew how much she meant to me — if you only knew what I was willing to do for her sake — "

"It's okay, Arthur, I understand." Feliciano pats his back. "And congratulations! I might flirt all the time, but even I know that real, true love, like the way you describe it, is rare and precious. I'll keep your secret for you, no problem. The last thing I'd ever want is to ruin it for you."

"Thank you," Arthur sincerely says. "I am in your debt."

"Nah, I just want you and your bella signora to be happy together. That will be enough for me!"

(Marie, unknowingly passing by them as she made her way back from the privy, happened to catch the tail-end of their conversation. She walks back to her seat with an unstoppable smile on her face, and when Arthur returns soon thereafter, she slips her arm through the crook of his and rests her head on his shoulder. She doesn't stop smiling for the rest of the play, not even during the sad part Feliciano warned them about.)

* * *

"What a sad story!" she exclaims with feeling as he walks her back to the bakery, sounding as though she thoroughly enjoyed every minute of hers and the characters' suffering. "Everyone _dies!_ Even the good people who didn't deserve it."

"Eustacia's end was most unfortunate."

She throws up her hands. "Ugh, don't remind me — hers was the _worst!_ I already know I'm going to be thinking about her and poor Trajan and poor everybody else for a while. I won't be able to keep it off my mind. Your next batch of blueberry scones will probably taste salty because of all my tears."

"They say the saddest stories are the ones which remain a part of you forever."

"Mmm — that may be, but I prefer happy endings. Especially for the women. Women never end up happy in stories like that. They always get the worst endings, and usually because of something the hero does."

She lightly hums as they continue strolling at a leisurely pace. There's magic in the air tonight, and neither of them are ready for it to end so soon.

"Do you know anything about the constellations?" she suddenly asks.

"Indeed I do."

"Would you tell me about some of them? I always wanted to learn but I never had the chance. My brother was determined for me to continue my schooling after our parents died, but he wanted me to study more…_practical_ things."

Arthur comes to a halt, gazing upward.

"Ah, yes. There." He reaches out to take her hand. "If you'll permit me — "

He bends to put his head level with hers, their cheeks brushing. Lifting her finger, he outlines a figure amongst the twinkling stars.

"That," he says, "is the swan."

"And what's the swan's story?"

"A man disguised himself as one in order to seduce a woman."

"Oh. _Goodness._ Maybe she was just very, very lonely."

"And that," he says, tracing another figure, "is the lyre."

"So who dressed up as a lyre, and what girl was silly enough to fall for it?"

Arthur chuckles, a low rumble that makes the butterflies in her stomach flutter.

"No," he says, pulling away and releasing her hand, "the lyre belonged to a brilliant man who played it so beautifully that it charmed all the animals — all of nature, really. Even the rocks."

She lifts her eyebrows. "Impressive."

"But one day, the man's wife — whom he loved very much — died, and he traveled to the Underworld to find her. His music convinced the Lord of the Underworld to return his wife to him, under the stipulation that he must walk ahead and not glance back at her as they traveled back to the Upperworld."

"And?"

"And…he couldn't help himself — "

"He didn't _look back,_ did he?"

Arthur nods. "He wanted to make sure she was still behind him. She disappeared instantly, and he lost her again, only this time it would be forever."

"How sad," she murmurs, walking down the street. "But it just proves my point, really. The women always _do_ end up worse."

Arthur — rooted to his spot, his chest tight — watches her figure as she walks away. He doesn't have the heart to speak up on behalf of the husband. To tell her how much the husband — left behind with only the knowledge of how utterly inept he was to save his wife — must have suffered.

He sprints to catch up with her.

"I have several books about the stars in my library," he says. "I could lend you some, if you like?"

"Yes, I'd love to read them."

He reaches out to take her hand, lacing their fingers together.

"Are you holding my hand, sir?" she playfully asks, a devilish glint in her eyes.

"I — " Arthur drops her hand. "No, of course not."

"I think you were."

"Certainly not, I — "

She giggles, slipping her hand back into his, and they don't let go of each other until they reach her bakery and say goodnight.

* * *

Two mornings later:

Arthur stalks into the dining hall and unceremoniously slams his hands down on the table.

"Alfred — " Arthur holds up a finger up but quickly withdraws it, needing a moment to compose himself. "Alfred, what exactly _the fuck _do you think you are doing?"

Alfred looks up from his simple breakfast of milk and porridge.

"Um. Eating?"

"Not _that,_ you daft fool, though I do hope you are taking the time to _aim_ when you bring your spoon to your mouth. What is this Yao has just been telling me about Francis coming to Spades for dinner tomorrow night?"

Arthur straightens and narrows his eyes at Alfred. "I know Yao cannot possibly mean the King of Diamonds. Surely he must mean some other Francis."

"No, it's King Francis." Alfred wipes his mouth with his napkin. "We're gonna talk about the pirate problem."

"The pirate prob— " A confused look crosses Arthur's face. "We spoke about that and I assumed you had taken care of it."

"No, you told me to do whatever I wanted about it, and that you didn't care. But the thing is, I don't really know _what_ to do about the pirates, so I invited Francis over for dinner to talk it over."

_"Talk it over?"_

"Yeah. I don't want to make the wrong decision. And you wouldn't give me any advice, so…"

"So let me see if I understand you correctly. Not only are we are to have that loud-mouthed ponce for dinner and suffer as he blusters about and saunters all over _my_ castle as though it was _his — _but he is also making decisions regarding matters of state for Spades now?"

"Well, it's only fair."

"No, Alfred," Arthur sneers. "Fair would be if you were to ride out one day and never return, having met with an unfortunate hunting accident."

"Dude, _harsh._ Thanks for ruining my appetite." Alfred sets his spoon in his bowl and pushes it away. "Look, the pirates have been attacking _both_ our coasts, so it's only right that him and us work together to come up with a plan. Maybe if me and him take a firm stance on it, put up a united front, it'll scare the pirates into backing off."

"So tomorrow night I am to have the pleasure of _two _idiots' company instead of merely _one."_

"As if. You never hang out with me if you can help it. And why am I the only one here who cares about the pirates? Don't you care about your own people?"

The only thing worse than being so soundly humbled, Arthur realizes, is that it came from none other than Alfred. He feels much smaller than Alfred at that moment, despite the fact he is standing and Alfred is sitting.

"And why do you hate Francis so bad, anyway?"

"Because — because that's _none of your business,_ that's why."

"It's _way_ too early for this, and I have a killer headache." Alfred rises from his seat and pushes his chair in. "Just — look, we'll manage somehow, okay? Things always work out in the end. And, honestly — if a dinner with a King is the worst of your problems, your life ain't so bad."

"Oh, but Alfred," Arthur calls, his voice deceptively curious, as Alfred walks toward the door. "Do tell me — how are we to entertain our illustrious guest without a cook?"

Alfred turns. "What do you mean, without a cook?"

"I mean exactly that." Arthur crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the table. "Yao has given our head cook the week off to attend the birth of her first grandchild."

Alfred's eyes widen. "Oh, crap."

He hurries back to Arthur. "Well — what about all her helpers? It wasn't just her cookin' down there."

"They are not fit to cook for a king!" Arthur shouts, horrified. "Even if it _is_ Francis, he's still royalty, and in addition, his palate is exceptionally fastidious. We would be made the object of vicious ridicule for _years._ We would be a laughingstock, and you may be sure Francis would never forget it and never tire of retelling the tale. Spades' reputation would be ruined."

"Then — " Alfred runs his hand through his hair. "Then we gotta tell him not to come, that we need to reschedule."

"Impossible. Not only would it be an _embarrassment_ for us to reschedule, you nitwit, but he's also more than likely already halfway to Spades by now."

Arthur heads for the door, roughly brushing past Alfred.

"But perhaps," he says, his hand on the door handle, "since the two of you seem to be on _such_ good terms, you may be able to persuade Francis to enjoy porridge as much as you seem to."

* * *

Arthur, dreading the dinner with Francis, retired to his study and racked his brain for a solution to their problem.

And it was just as he was swallowing the last bite of the last blueberry scone in his blue box (decorated with small yellow doves) that an idea came to him.

* * *

"Arthur!" Marie happily cries when the bell rings above the door and he steps into her shop. "I wasn't expecting to see you today!"

"I know it is not the day I usually visit you, but — "

He furrows his brows and nervously fiddles with the rim of his hat.

"Uh oh." Wiping her hands on her apron, she comes around the counter and hurries over to him. "I know that face. Something's happened."

"Forgive me, but — I've come to ask your help with something."

"Of course," she says, reaching out to take hold of his arms. "What is it? Is everything alright?"

At the look of anxiety on her face — that this fine woman should be worried for him, that she should drop everything to help him without a moment's notice — Arthur is nearly undone by the knowledge of how truly, irrefutably unworthy of her he is.

"Darling girl." He takes her hands and leads her to a table, pulling up a chair beside her. "What if I were to offer you a chance to earn the patronage of the King and Queen?"

She inclines her head in disbelief. "Are you _serious?"_

"Completely so. King Francis from Diamonds is to dine with them tomorrow night, but they have no cook."

"No cook?"

"No. King Alfred was unaware she'd been given the week off when he invited Francis to dine, and it's placed him and the queen in a terrible bind."

"So…"

"Would you be willing to cook for them?"

_"Me?"_

He nods.

"Oh, but — " She bites her lip. "Arthur, I don't know…"

"They'll love you, darling, I'm sure of it. How could they not? Your baking is divine and I'm sure your cooking is delicious as well."

"Well, I know plenty of yummy recipes, but I don't know how appropriate they are for royalty. And I wouldn't know what to do, how to act — and I don't have any fancy clothes…"

"They needn't see you, if you rather they didn't. You may stay in the kitchens with the lower cooks, if you wish."

"But — this is all so sudden!" she exclaims, bringing a hand to her forehead. "Tomorrow night, you said?"

"Yes."

"Oh, gosh. I'd have to start planning right now if I wanted to get it ready in time…"

"I shall leave here directly," he offers, "and send you a list of everything the Spades kitchens have on hand at the moment. And if you send your menu back to the castle, I'll make absolutely certain the lower cooks have everything you need ready and everything prepared for your arrival tomorrow."

"Wait, wait," she gently says, reaching out to cover his hand with hers. "Arthur, I'm confused. Why are _you_ asking me this? Do you — " She shakes her head. "You don't actually _know_ the King and Queen, do you?"

Arthur opens his mouth, but no words come out.

"Arthur? What is it?" Her eyes search his. "Tell me."

He stares at her for a moment before dropping his gaze. "Would you believe me if I told you that — yes, actually. I do know them."

"You _do?"_

"Yes. I do business with them from time to time. As did my father and grandfather before me."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He lays his other hand atop hers and can't meet her eyes. "I don't know, actually. I thought — I didn't want you to think — "

"My silly stick-in-the-mud." She cups his cheek with her free hand. "Don't you know you can tell me anything?"

He closes his eyes and leans into her touch.

"I'm sorry I neglected to tell you sooner." He opens his eyes. "And — Marie — "

He takes a deep breath.

"There's something else — something I ought to have told you before — "

_Don't be a coward. Call it what it really is._

"I shall be dining with them tomorrow night as well," he eventually says, his heart clenching uncomfortably within him.

"You will?" Her eyes light up. "Well, then, as long as I know you're there, I know I won't have anything to worry about."

"So — you'll do it?"

"I'll do it!"

She jumps up and drags him to his feet.

"Now go," she says, pushing him toward the door. "Go, go, go! Get that list to me as quick as you can!"

* * *

The following evening:

King Francis of Diamonds is not so much shown into the reception hall of Spades Castle as, true to Arthur's prediction, he saunters in as though it were _his_ castle.

"Sigh no more, ladies," he greets them, holding his arms out wide, as though _he_ were grandly welcoming _them._ "Sigh no more! For I have arrived, as gorgeous as promised!"

"How are you, Francis?" Alfred affably asks, coming up to him and shaking his hand. (Alfred generally prefers to greet people by hugging them, but after Francis refused to let him go the first time they embraced, Alfred learned all about the fine art of drawing boundaries.)

Francis removes his hat and gloves, looking around for someone to hand them off to.

"Oh, but Alfred — " Francis appears supremely bemused. "What am I to do with these? Your usual man is not here."

"I'll take 'em," Alfred says, doing so. "Arthur gave Yao the night off."

(A last minute decision, that. Arthur desperately wanted Yao by his side so as to help him survive the night, but if Marie were to see him — )

_"Really,_ Alfred," Francis sniffs, commencing his blustering, also as Arthur predicted. "You simply _must_ do something about the roads. The royal derriere has never had such a jostling in all its life — not even in the days of my wild youth, when I was keener to enjoy it."

"Perhaps you are getting old and feeble," Arthur suggests. He smiles sweetly. "How unfortunate for you."

"Too bad for _you,_ I don't intend to grow old. I am fully committed to aging gracefully."

"Save for halitosis, you have never committed to anything in your entire, worthless life."

"Oh, _how_ I have missed this place!" Francis sighs, looking around the hall. He rests his hand on Arthur's shoulder. "I always enjoy the times we are thrown together and forced to interact, Arthur. No one raises my self-esteem as extraordinarily high as you do when you are standing next to me. You have the unique gift of throwing people into relief simply by existing."

"Touch me again, and I shall do your Queen the favor of ripping off both your arms."

Francis laughs, the sound of it like staccato puffs of air. He walks on ahead of Arthur and Alfred, his exceptionally fastidious palate leading the way.

* * *

Francis and Alfred discuss in great detail what is to be done about the pirates, but Arthur finds he can't stay focused on their conversation for the life of him.

Any discussion about the pirates is invariably pointless, for any action Alfred and Francis take is sure to have the opposite of its intended effect: It will be taken as encouraging the actions of the pirates rather than condemning them, for pirates are driven by a lust for adventure, the craving of treasure, and the sheer delight of subverting authority. The more they voice their disapproval, the more it shall serve to embolden the pirates. Really, the best thing they could do is arm the populace and let the pirates run their course until they realize they have earned a clandestine royal endorsement — the most vile and reprehensible thing imaginable to a pirate.

He's also thinking of Marie in the kitchens, and what the lower cooks might be saying — what a servant might carelessly let slip —

But more than either of those, what Arthur can't stop obsessing over is Alfred's accusation that he does not care about his people. He _does_ care about them — how could he not? He's interacted with his citizens scores of times in Marie's bakery, and he'll never forget his encounters with them when he himself was a commoner.

So why does he keep dwelling on it?

(Because he knows he did not always care about his people in the manner he does now. Until he used the Watch, he considered the kingdom not as a country full of people needing guidance and compassion from their ruler, but as merely a collection of monuments to be owned and shown off. The shame born of his inattentiveness from years past — his abandonment — his _blatant disregard_ — is robust enough to crawl through time and settle into his bones.)

* * *

"Well!" After daintily wiping the corners of his mouth with his napkin, Francis leans back in his chair. "What a delicious meal! I insist on knowing who our cook was tonight."

Alfred glances at Arthur.

"It was only our usual cook," Arthur says.

"Please, Arthur, do not think me simple. I have dined in Spades Castle enough times to know that that was not the work of your usual cook." Francis claps his hands. "Come, come! We don't have all night!"

He turns to the server waiting in the corner of the room. "You there! Bring me the person who is responsible for making my taste buds so incandescently happy."

Arthur feebly attempts to stop the servant from leaving and bringing Marie to them, but Francis refuses to be gainsaid. The server bows and obediently leaves the room.

Arthur can hear the ticking of the Watch pulsing in his head, in time with every wild jolt of his racing heart. He wants to scream, or claw Francis' eyes out, or both. When the server returns and opens the door, the sound of it startles Arthur so badly he nearly knocks over his glass of wine.

The server leads Marie into the room. The men rise from their chairs and bow to her curtsey.

Alfred rushes over to her.

"Is it okay if I hug you?" he asks.

"If you'd like to," Marie tells him, and he envelops her into a mighty bear hug.

"That was the tastiest, most delicious food I've ever ate _in my life,"_ Alfred explains. "Thank you a million times!"

"You're welcome," she says, bewildered, lightly patting his back.

He pulls away. "I'm Alfred, by the way."

_"Oh _— Your Majesty — "

"Nah, please, Alfred's fine. Or Al. Or whatever, really — I ain't picky. Not really big on the formal stuff."

Arthur walks to Marie and takes her hand, giving it a gentle, encouraging squeeze.

"Though I am unhesitatingly _loath_ to admit it, Francis," he begins, "you were correct in assuming that the creator of tonight's meal was not the castle's usual cook. Allow me to present to you Marie de Vries. She owns a bakery in the city and was good enough to oblige me by cooking for us tonight."

"It's very nice to meet you both," she says, looking from Alfred to Francis.

"Not nearly as nice as it is for _me_ to meet _you,"_ Francis says, taking her hand from Arthur and cradling it between his own, ignoring Arthur's disapproving glare. "Your cooking has bewitched me, my dear, body and soul."

Arthur groans, but nonetheless continues: "You have already met Alfred. And when he's not being a pompous, theatrical nancy — this is King Francis of Diamonds."

"But you may call me _yours,"_ Francis says, kissing her hand. "Come," he says, leading her to the table, "come and let me sit beside the cook who has changed my life, for I never knew what good food was until tonight."

"There are far safer places for her to sit," Arthur pointedly says, pulling out the empty chair next to him.

Marie smiles gratefully at him and sits beside him.

"May I ask why the Queen isn't here?" she asks, meaning the Queen of Spades.

But Francis, thinking she must mean _his_ Queen, says: "Unfortunately, the Queen is ill."

_Thank you,_ Arthur prays to the Fates, exhaling the breath he didn't know he'd been holding, _thank you, thank you…_

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

"Would you care for a glass of wine?" Francis asks.

"No, thank you, but a glass of water would be wonderful."

"My dear," Francis continues as the server fills a glass for her, "you are so talented at what you do that I have decided I shall steal you away and make you my own personal cook."

"You shall do _no such thing,"_ Arthur angrily counters.

"Oh, _Arthur._ Always so stingy." Francis leans in close and loudly whispers to Marie: "He has always been like that, you know — ever since we were children."

"So you two grew up together?"

"I wouldn't call it that," Arthur says. "More like we were thrown together against my will from time to time."

Francis places a hand over his heart, takes up a tragic pose. "Alas, no matter how much weight I lose or how prettily I powder my face, he has _never _liked me."

"I wonder why, though. You seem like a nice man." She shoots a sly glance at Arthur. "Maybe he's just determined on being a stick-in-the-mud."

"Ah! _I like her!"_ Francis delightedly cries, clapping his hands together. "But, no," he says, sobering, "Arthur has never seen it that way. He has always, always been jealous of me."

"Jealous?" Marie looks from one man to the other. "But why should he be jealous?"

Arthur stares daggers at Francis — thought it might be cutlasses, rapiers, and claymores as well.

"The only thing I can think of, my dear," Francis says, staring right back, "is that he has always been jealous of me because I was afforded the luxury of a childhood."

Marie worriedly glances at Arthur. "Well — "

"While he was forced to be studious from a young age, _I_ was allowed to do as I pleased. I had _no_ responsibilities, while he was given them _all._ He resents me to this day for it. And, I always had such nice things because my family was always better off than this."

Alfred: "Francis — "

"Oh, Spades has nice things — for _Spades._ But Diamonds is the _true_ jewel of the world, and Arthur, you may not know, my dear, is greedy beyond anything. Greedier than a child. One need only look at his library to see the proof — it is filled with books he has never read and yet is proud to own."

Arthur clenches his jaw.

"I think Arthur is actually quite kind," Marie says, thinking of the books he loaned her from that same library. "I have never known him to be selfish."

"Ah! Indeed! You obviously have not known him long enough to know the _true_ Arthur."

Alfred: "Can we talk about something else?"

"You must tell me all about your history with him, ma petite gourmet, so that I may judge if Arthur has been his true self around you — his true self has never matured past the age of six or so — or if he is merely…_playing a part."_

Arthur: "You fucking bastard."

"I'm sorry," Marie says, "but — should I go? I don't really think — "

"Please stay," Alfred begs her. "Please don't leave me here alone with the both of them."

"I shall correct you as to the reason why I so utterly _despise_ you," Arthur snarls at Francis, "since you seem to be so wholly unaware. I have disliked you from the very first moment I met you, you sniveling _prick,_ and it wasn't because I was jealous of your fine hair or all the fine jewels you were wearing that day. It was not because of the mountain of toys you insisted on bringing along, and it was not because of the pony you rode."

"What was it that did it for you, then? My sterling sense of humor? My fine nose?"

"It was because — " Arthur clutches the tablecloth. "It was because you had both your parents with you, when mine had died only three weeks before."

The room is silent.

Under the table, unseen by the others, Marie reaches out and takes Arthur's hand.

"And you were treating them so _poorly,"_ he continues. "You have _never_ treated them as they deserve, and why those good people continue to dote on you, I shall never understand. Your parents are old and frail, in the twilight of their lives, when mine were not even afforded the opportunity to reach middle age — yet you hardly ever visit them, much less heed their advice. They would do anything for you, and yet — in fact, the King Father _willingly abdicated_ and _handed_ the throne to you, and _still,_ you continue to take him and your mother for granted. And that is something I refuse to condone."

The only sound in the room is the servant shuffling on his feet.

In the silence, Arthur squeezes Marie's hand so hard she squirms in her seat.

Francis clears his throat. His face is pensive as he lightly taps his fingers on the tablecloth.

"Like I said," he softly mutters, "jealous."

He turns to Alfred.

"This is excellent wine," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Would you allow me to take a few barrels home with me?"

Alfred glances at Arthur, who refuses to meet anyone's eye.

"Sure thing," Alfred says. "Just don't drink it all on the way home, okay?"

Francis distractedly chuckles and idly waves his hand. "No, of course not."

He turns to Marie. "And you, my dear — I remain in awe of your skills. You are a fabulous cook. I have not eaten so well in more than a year, I am sure, and Spades is very lucky to have you."

"Thank you."

"I am of a mind to make you an offer to come be my personal cook, in Diamonds Castle, but…" He leans in close and whispers: "It is only your_ scar."_

The color drains from Marie's face, and, like a trapped animal, she freezes.

Arthur and Alfred blankly stare at Francis, too stunned to form words.

"We have always been very concerned with reputation in my kingdom, and — excellent though your cooking may be — there is simply no way I would be able to justify having you in our employ. If word were to spread that I had a…_disfigured_ servant…"

Somehow, she manages to withdraw her hand from Arthur's vice-like grip. She pats his knee.

"I see why Arthur dislikes you so much now, Your Majesty," she says.

"I humbly beg your pardon?"

"Oh, nobody would ever think you guilty of being humble, believe me, but I do hope you run your kingdom better than you make small talk."

She pushes her chair away from the table.

"It was very nice meeting you, King Alfred," she says, curtseying, "I hope you all have a good night. Please excuse me."

She hurries out of the room.

And just as Arthur is about to hurl a barrage of the vilest, most vulgar insults he can think of at Francis —

Alfred: "That was really rude."

"What did I say?" Francis frantically shakes his head and offers up empty palms. "I did not mean to — "

"You might not've _meant_ to hurt her feelings, but you _did,_ and she deserves better than that because she seems like a really nice lady. Next time, _think_ before you speak. It's not that hard."

For the first time in his life, Arthur's grateful to Alfred. He knows he really ought to thank him for defending Marie, but that can wait — he only wants to find Marie and know that she's alright, so he excuses himself and goes to look for her.

* * *

After some searching and questioning of the servants, he finally finds her, sitting on a bench near the entrance to the garden's hedge maze, looking up at the stars.

When he approaches, she turns and gives him a sad little smile.

"Marie — " He shakes his head. "I am so very, _very_ sorry. You must believe me when I say I _never_ intended for that to happen."

"I know you didn't." She makes room for him on the bench and pats it, inviting him to sit next to her. "And you have nothing to apologize for. It wasn't your fault."

He sits down and peers up at her face. "You — you have not been crying, have you?"

"No. I've already cried all the tears I want to in life over my scar."

She shyly glances at him. "Well, there were a _few_ tears," she admits. "But they weren't because I was sad. I was just — frustrated. And disappointed, because I don't think King Francis is a bad person, really. He's just a little thoughtless, is all. And I know that because he's a king he's not used to censoring his speech around anyone. Still, it's like — like the shattering of an illusion, to realize that even people of royal blood are just as flawed as the rest of us. Kind of weird."

"I shall _wring_ his _neck,"_ Arthur viciously vows, "don't think I won't." He leaps off the bench and takes up a beastly pacing, clenching and unclenching his fists. "He is lower than dirt. He is _scum._ That such a despicable person, whose feet are not fit to tread the same ground as you, should _dare_ to — "

"You are a good man," she says, reaching out to take his hand. "But let's try to forget about it, okay? Because something I realized very early on after getting my scar was that I didn't want to give what others had to say about it any kind of power over me — that's no way to live life. And ever since, I've been the better for it."

He brings her hand to his lips and kisses it.

"At least allow me to say how exceptionally proud I was of you back there, and then I will have done. Because not enough people cut that pompous arse down to size as often as he deserves, nor so succinctly."

"It _did_ feel kind of good," she acknowledges, pulling him back down beside her and grinning wickedly.

Marie sighs contentedly as the stars twinkle above them, as the torches flutter.

"They say that the Queen of Spades' garden is the loveliest in all the four kingdoms," she says.

"Might I persuade you to take a turn about the maze with me?"

"Are we even allowed to do that?"

"Erm — yes. I do not believe the Queen would particularly mind. And if he does, I'll take the blame for it."

"I was very sorry to hear about your parents," she offers as they walk into the maze. "I had no idea."

"Ah. Yes." His eyes go distant. "That."

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. But, just so you know — I was very young when my parents died, too."

"I sometimes think…" He hesitates, never having been so unguarded about his parents to anyone before, not even Yao. He _wants_ to tell her, but finding the words are more difficult than he imagined. "Sometimes I wonder if I place too much emphasis on their deaths."

"How so?"

"Well — I'm nine-and-twenty, yet I still find myself reacting to situations as though I were still the child I was when they passed. Immature, I fear. And so — so bloody _stunted._ You know I've a temper. I cannot deny that it's often easiest for me to respond with anger and…resentment. But it's something I ought to have outgrown by now. One would think I had enough time to come to terms with their deaths, wouldn't one?"

"I don't think losing a parent — or losing _both_ parents — is something someone ever comes completely to terms with, especially if it happened when we were so young. I don't think we'll ever learn to _accept_ it. We just sort of…learn to get through every day without them, is all."

"I hated myself for _years_ after their death."

"Arthur, _no…"_

He nods. "I thought — I thought I was somehow responsible. That I could have prevented it, somehow. And the fact that I didn't only served to prove I was as selfish as Francis."

"No, Arthur — you know better now, don't you?" She reaches out to rub his arm, to try and comfort him. "You were only a boy — there was nothing you could have done."

He sighs. He did not learn of the Watch's existence until a full decade after their deaths. And the past is the past, what's done is done, but had he known then what he knows now —

He's not entirely sure what he would have done.

"You are right," he says. "I _do_ know better now. But perhaps all those black thoughts, all those doubts and anxieties are what first drew me to studying magic."

She stops walking.

"You know magic?"

_Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck._

"I — erm — "

"No, you don't," she playfully challenges, her elfin eyes dancing. "There's _no way."_

"No way, eh?"

Arthur holds his hand, palm up, before her. He flips it upside down, and when he brings it palm-side up again, a fireball bursts into life.

She gasps, astonished, though Arthur notices she is perhaps not as frightened as she really ought to be, considering that magic is, after all, forbidden.

Slowly bringing her hand up, she holds it close enough to the flame to feel its warmth without burning herself. The fire makes her eyes glitter, makes her skin glow in a captivating way Arthur could gaze at forever.

"Do something else," she entreats him.

He closes his palm, extinguishing the flame.

"Give me your hand."

She holds it out to him. He cups his hand beneath hers, holding it and positioning it palm-side up. He lays his other hand atop hers, and then, drawing a semi-circle in the air, he draws out a quivering column of water from her hand.

"This is amazing," she breathes. "I've never seen anything like it."

"No, I imagine not." Arthur waves his hand in a reversal of the semi-circle, the column of water disappearing as he does so, and ends by resting his palm against hers.

"But why is it forbidden?" she asks, looking at their hands. "I know it could be used with bad intentions, but that's true for anything. They still manufacture weapons, don't they? What if there was a drought? Magicians could bring the rain themselves."

Arthur shrugs and clasps his hands behind his back. "Valid points all, but it's been forbidden for a thousand years. I doubt the popular opinion concerning it shall change any time soon."

They continue walking in silence, the gravel crunching beneath their feet.

"I promised you once that I'd tell you the story of how I came to Spades," she softly begins.

He gives her an encouraging look, and as she tells the story of her childhood — the death of her parents, Willem raising her, she and her brother growing apart — he finds he already knows most of it, as it's the exact same story from their original time.

But this is where the present timeline diverges: When she and her brother fought, Marie lost.

"And that's how this happened," she says, gesturing vaguely toward her face. "Which was a total accident, by the way — he never meant to hurt me. But I think it kind of — well, I don't want to say it screwed him up, but it did change him. Made the protective big brother side of him come out _that_ much more. But it's interesting — we had the fight because I wanted to leave home, but when I told him I wanted to move to Spades and open a bakery a few years later, he didn't try to stop me. I think it's because he's never forgiven himself for scarring me."

She glances up at the stars and sighs. "I was worried about him being alone after having me with him for so long, but it all worked out in the end — he entered the contest to become the Queen of Hearts' bodyguard, and he won, so he's been busy doing that. I just wish — "

She wraps her arms around herself. "I just wish he would stop that _stupid_ affair with the Queen."

Arthur stops in his tracks. "Affair?"

Having walked on ahead, she turns to face him. "I guess I didn't tell you, did I? It sounds like they're getting pretty serious about it. But it's so wrong. An affair is such an awful, terrible thing. I know _I'd_ never have one."

(She thinks she's reassuring him, should he ever decide to make her an offer.)

"But at the same time, it's my _brother,_ and I'd never judge him for anything he did because I love him no matter what. And I don't try to talk him out of it because he's grown and can make his own decisions, you know? But _still. _It just doesn't sit right at all."

(In reality, she's only breaking his heart.)

"The poor Queen of Hearts, though. It's all such a sad situation — an arranged marriage to someone he likes and respects but can't love romantically. Makes me thankful for what I have, you know? I can't imagine what it's like to be born into that kind of life, with no way out."

"Marie — "

"Mmm?"

_She'll never forgive me when she finds out the truth._

" — I only wanted to say, you look remarkably fetching tonight."

She smiles up at him, warm and adoring and so very obviously _his_ that the guilt dances upon his back.

"I'm glad I came to Spades," she says. "And I'm glad I met you."

"As am I."

He reaches out to take her hand.

"Are you holding my hand again, sir?"

"Yes. I am."

"Good," she says, lifting his hand and twirling herself underneath it.

* * *

Marie often cajoles Arthur into helping her around the bakery, turning him into an impromptu assistant. He's helped hang dishtowels and tablecloths up to dry, been made to gather cobwebs she can't reach, and he takes down the items she needs to restock as she goes through her supplies in the back room.

("Go ahead and add a bottle of that nasty brown sludge to the list, too," she commanded him one day. "But only _one_ bottle. And not a big one — a small one. Actually, just to be safe, write _sample size_ next to it. Stop grinning like that, Mr. Kirkland. This doesn't mean you've won.")

Today she wipes a bit of raspberry cheesecake from the corner of his mouth with her apron and asks if he would like to help her pick strawberries.

He nods, and she takes his hand, leading him to the backroom. Plucking an apron off a peg, she ties it for him, wrapping her arms around his middle and tying the straps, her breath hot on his neck as she does so.

Her garden isn't very large, and she still makes frequent trips down to the bazaar to buy her ingredients, but she decided to grow strawberries in her little patch of earth so that her strawberry-flavored sweets — her most popular flavor — would always be fresh.

She hums and makes easy, light conversation as she picks the berries and tosses them into Arthur's outstretched apron.

"Would you like to try one?" she asks, holding up a lusciously plump strawberry.

He nods, but before he can say anything or reach out to grab the strawberry himself, she holds it up to his lips, gently pushing it into his mouth.

He bites down on it, his teeth piercing the ripe strawberry's tender flesh, watching her as she watches him. Sucking on the juice, he nips his bite from the hull, rolling the cool wetness of the berry around his mouth, tonguing it, savoring it.

A bit of juice trickles down his chin. She reaches up to gently wipe it away, her thumb brushing his bottom lip, and sucks the juice off her thumb.

Once they've made it back inside her backroom, she grabs a large bowl from a shelf and helps him dump the berries into it.

"Do you usually sample the berries as you go?" he asks. "That's cheating, you know."

"Mmm, sometimes." She sets a canister of sugar next to the bowl of strawberries.

He gives her a look.

"Oh, alright, _fine."_ She laughs, rolling her eyes and lightly shoving his shoulder. "Yes, I do, all the time, and I'm not ashamed of it _one bit."_

She picks up a strawberry and dips it in the sugar.

"Life is short," she explains, popping the strawberry into her mouth.

She's barely swallowed it before Arthur pushes her up against the table and covers her lips with his. The strawberry hull slips from her fingers and rolls across the floor.

Her lips move in perfect time with his as she kisses him back, matching every moan and heated breath with a flick of her tongue, a gentle tug of his lip between hers. Every part of her feels electric in his arms, as though she were drowning in flames, and maybe she is — she _burns_ for him, burns for his voice and his smile and his touch, burns for the way he stokes every longing and every craving within her.

"I love you," he whispers, holding her face in his hands, his lips hovering over hers. "I love you, I _love you_ — you _must_ know that — "

"I do," she whispers back, gasping when he trails tender kisses up and down her scar. "And I love you."

Arthur can't help himself — she tastes like strawberries, like perfect sweetness, like he can never get enough.

"Don't stop," she breathlessly begs him, moaning when he kisses down her neck. The feel of his teeth against her skin makes her shiver the same way the fireball did in his hand, makes her clutch fiercely onto him, makes her want to let him do whatever he pleases with her. "Please don't stop kissing me — I _need_ you to kiss me — every day — _please — "_

"Yes," he promises, the raw ache that had been welling within him for her finally, _finally_ subsiding, "yes, yes…"

The bell above the front door rings out, and they freeze against each other.

She brings a finger up and holds it against his lips. Silently, he gently kisses her finger, grabs her wrist and puts his lips to her palm, bends to suck at the soft skin inside her elbow.

When the bell rings a second time, the door slamming shut after it, they collapse into a fit of giggles against each other.

"I never would have guessed my stick-in-the-mud would turn out to be so bad for business," she says.

They spend the rest of the afternoon in each other's arms, kissing, giggling, wondering fingers tracing sharp cheekbones.

.

.

*I would apologize for the length, but I feel it's justified this time, as Bel's got to fall in love with him all over again.

*Leda and the Swan and Orpheus

*The Wild Rose Rebellion from Final Fantasy II

*"Sigh no more ladies" is a Shakespeare line I have always wanted to use in real life, but, so far, I haven't had the chance.

*Dramatic anime montage/preview for the next episode: _"Don't waste any more time or breath on him," Willem sneers. "He'll only give you excuses and stories — not the truth."_


	6. the chariot

**Bed of Nails**

.

_vi. the chariot_

.

Willem has never been fond of sweets, and as such, does not eat any of his sister's baking when he visits her. In addition to merely spending time in her presence, a few strong cups of black coffee are all he ever requests.

("Eating some pastries might help you get that sour look off your face, Sour Face," she often teases him.

"Not if they taste like shit," he teases back.)

"When're you movin' back to Hearts?" he asks her one afternoon as he sits at her counter, watching her snip the ends from a colorful bouquet of tulips.

She grins. "Aww, do you miss me?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I miss you, too. But I don't think I'll be going back home any time soon. I'm positively _stuck_ here."

"If you need help..."

"Oh, I'm not stuck in a bad way. It's just…" She holds a flower up to her nose and inhales deeply. It was Arthur who sent her the flowers, and as she thinks of him, a smile spreads across her face. "I have things here in Spades that are worth staying for."

"Like what?"

"Like this!" she says, setting the flower and her scissors on the counter and running off into her backroom. When she returns, she presents him with a large black plaque.

"The Spades coat of arms?" he asks, taking it from her and inspecting it.

"Yes. It's a symbol for me to put above my door, to show everyone that I've earned the patronage of the King and Queen of Spades. That since _they_ think I'm the best, everyone else should, too."

Still assessing the plaque, he brushes his thumb over the edge of it.

"I'm proud of you, Sis," he says, his voice unusually soft.

"Good," she declares, proudly preening before him. "I'm glad. I think you being proud of me makes me happier than having the royal patronage does. Well, that, and I kind of maybe need you to hang it up for me."

He rolls his eyes. "Figures."

"Well, you're always so conveniently _tall,_ and I can't reach from my step ladder."

It's not exaggerating to say that Willem is tall — and often conveniently so — nor is the fact she cannot reach whilst standing upon her step ladder an untruth, but the plaque could already be set above her entrance by now if she'd asked Arthur or one of her neighbors to hang it up for her. The reality is she loves her big brother and, for all her independence, she doesn't want him to feel unneeded.

"Don't think you can weasel your way out of it, either," she warns, picking back up the scissors. "I know where to find you, Sour Face."

He gives a little grunt at that, but she notices he doesn't sound displeased.

"How'd you get it?" he asks, setting the plaque on the counter and picking back up his coffee mug.

"It was honestly the craziest thing! It just sort of happened at the last minute. See, a friend of mine actually knows the King and Queen — "

At this surprising revelation, Willem lifts his eyebrows ever so slightly.

"I _know,_ right?" she exclaims, still not quite believing it herself.

"It's good for you to have connections."

"Actually…now that I think on it…he knows quite a few people in high places."

"He?"

She gives him a look._ "Will."_

He shrugs_. _It's not an apology, but it'll do for now.

_"Anyway_ — so the King and Queen were entertaining someone, but they didn't have their cook with them, and my friend thought of me. He asked me if I'd cook for them, and I said yes, and now here I am, famous and with a big, fancy plaque."

Now it is _his_ turn to give _her_ a look. "Famous?"

"Well — I _will_ be. Soon. The royal patronage can only help, right?"

Having snipped all the ends of the tulips, she begins arranging them in the vase.

"Is he the friend Jack saw you with at the play?"

"Jack?" she asks, looking up and drawing her brows together, frowning slightly.

"Jack of Hearts. Feliciano."

_"Oh,"_ she says, drawing it out as comprehension dawns upon her, "okay. Feli. _Now_ I know who you're talking about. And — " She defiantly lifts her chin. "Yes. Yes, he is."

Willem, who looked so impressed before, doesn't now.

"Oh, don't give me that look," she scolds. "You're always talking about how _lonely_ you think I am and how you wish I'd finally make some friends here."

"Your girlfriends back home miss you."

"And I miss them, too, but as much as I liked being with them…I wanted to see the world. I wanted to go places and do things, and they didn't. They all just wanted to stay home and be bored."

"Baking in Spades is seein' the world?"

"You don't have to be so _critical."_

"Not bein' critical. Just concerned."

"You don't have to be so _concerned_ about me, either."

This conversation is starting to remind her of the one five years ago, when they had their fight, when she got her scar —

She picks up the vase of flowers and stomps up the stairs. Entering her bedroom, she sits them on the little table next to her bed.

When she comes back down the stairs and takes up her usual place behind the counter, her brother gives her an apologetic look.

"Sorry," he mutters. "Habit. Just want the best for you, Sis."

"I know," she sighs, and goes about cleaning up the wet mess from the flower stems.

"So — what's his name?"

"Will!"

He holds his hands up in a harmless motion of surrender. "Not pryin'. Just curious. Jack said he saw you with someone but wouldn't say who."

"I wonder why, though? He and Arthur are friends. They said they've known each other for a while — since Queen Kiku was crowned, which was, what? Eight years ago?"

Willem lifts his mug to his lips and shrugs. "Kid just ran off mid-sentence."

"Well, you know how you can be sometimes. He mentioned he was scared of you."

"Yeah?"

"That's not something to be proud of, and you know it." She narrows her eyes. _"Be nice_ to that boy."

"His name's Arthur?"

_"Damn it, Will!"_ She throws her hands up and lets out a frustrated shriek. "I didn't mean to tell you that."

"Why not?"

"Because — I just want some things kept to myself, that's why. I'm a grown woman and I'm entitled to a little privacy."

"Can't blame me. Innocent girl, all alone in a foreign land. Don't want anyone to take advantage of you."

"He's _not_ taking advantage of me." Noticing his mug is empty, she grabs the kettle from the stove and refills it for him. "He's — well, he's sweet. He makes it a point to visit me every Wednesday and we weren't always so close, but I — "

_I love him. I was so afraid I'd miss out on this feeling, that I would only read about it in books. I love him, I love him, I love him…_

" — well, we're close _now."_

"How close?"

"How close are you and the Queen?" she snaps, slamming the kettle back onto the stove. "At least _I_ can be with Arthur without having to hide it. At least we can hold hands out in public."

Some coffee sloshed out of the kettle. She grabs a washcloth and begins wiping it up.

"I'm sorry," she eventually says. "I didn't mean to be mean."

Willem shrugs. " 'S alright."

She sighs. "No, it's not."

They both know what she's referring to, and at that, they both decide to drop it.

* * *

Before he makes his way back to Hearts that evening, Willem asks around and discovers that Arthur is actually a very common name in Spades. It's had its phases, its attractiveness has come and gone depending on the generation, but nearly thirty years ago it had a sudden surge in popularity due to the birth of the Crown Prince. Arthur was en vogue again.

Willem tries not to dwell too much on this man his sister is so obviously attached to, whoever he may be, but _still_ — any man who might try to take his sister away from him had better meet with his approval first. He refuses to give Marie up to just _anybody._

* * *

"I've been thinking, Mr. Kirkland."

"Dangerous pastime, that."

She looks up from her ledger, lightly tapping her pencil against it. "I know your favorite colors are blue and green. I know you're allergic to ginger, and that your favorite class when you were studying at the university was the history of fifth century fashion."

"I would stick to selling sweets if I were you, love." He dunks a biscuit into his tea and grins. "Your jokes are rubbish."

"What — you don't like the wigs all the fancy men wore back then?" She shrugs. _"I_ like the wigs all the fancy men wore back then."

"You'd love Parliament, then. Perukes are all the rage these days amongst stroppy senators."

"You've been inside the Parliament building?"

"…a few times."

_"Ooh,_ what's it like?"

"That lot is too fractious by half. I much prefer being in your company."

Smiling and setting the pencil down, she leans across the counter and gives him a quick kiss on the lips.

"Well," she continues, "what I _wanted_ to say, before you distracted me with wig talk — "

"Your one weakness, apparently."

"Wigs and your accent are the only two things I'm weak against, and now that you know, _I cannot let you live."_ She giggles. "In all seriousness, though, I've been thinking — I know so much about you, but I don't know what your birth cards are."

She holds her hands in front of his face, wiggling her fingers as though she were hypnotizing him.

_"Who — are — you?"_ she intones, pushing her voice as low and deep as it will allow itself to bow.

Chuckling, he reaches up to grab her fingers and kisses the tips of them.

"My birth cards were the Five of Cups, the Lovers, and the Tower."

"Hmm," she hums, stroking an invisible beard, narrowing her eyes in an attempt to look refined and scholarly. _"Interesting."_

"And yours?"

"I got the Lovers card, too." She grins and bites her lip, holding his gaze. "You know what they say if you meet someone and you both have the Lovers card, don't you?"

The change in her expression is so slight that it takes Arthur a moment to recognize it for what it is, and once he does, he sits up a little taller in his chair. The cat-like curve of her grin dips into a soft smile that actually isn't, and something…_improper_ reveals itself within her eyes. The deliciously brazen exposure of it makes him want to spend the rest of the day, the rest of the week, the rest of his _life_ demanding she make good on whatever it is she's offering him.

He clears his throat and looks away.

_She loves Arthur Kirkland,_ he reminds himself, _not the real me._

And then: _This isn't right. Is there no other way?_

"Yes, I know what they say," he hurriedly says, pink dusting his cheeks. "But — your other birth cards."

If she's disappointed, she doesn't show it, only laughs and winks at her stick-in-the-mud.

"I'll tell you what my other two are the next time you to come to visit me."

"Oh, I see." Arthur laces his fingers together, taps his thumbs, purses his lips. "Hmm. That _does_ present a problem, then, doesn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"If you shan't reveal your two remaining birth cards, madam, then I suppose I oughtn't to tell you I've a present for you."

"You do?" Her eyes excitedly light up. "Oh, what is it? Tell me!"

"I cannot."

"But why?" she asks, pouting.

Arthur disinterestedly inspects his fingernails. "It shall have to wait until the next time I visit you."

She lets out a disbelieving huff. "You are _awful,_ Arthur Kirkland!" she shouts, even as she laughs. "Get out of my bakery, I'm done with you. D-o-n-e, _done."_

With a shrug and a maddening little smile she wants to kiss off his stupidly handsome face, he rises from his seat and makes as though to leave. In an instant, she's running around the counter and grabbing him, slipping her hand into every pocket he has and digging for her present.

"Not that one," he tells her. "And not that one, eith— "

He breaks off and giggles in an undignified manner when she begins tickling him.

_"Ha!"_ she triumphantly gloats when she finds something. Withdrawing her hand from the right breast pocket of his jacket, she pulls out a delicate bracelet adorned with exquisitely fine blue and purple stones.

"Oh," she solemnly breathes, gazing at it.

"Do you like it?" he asks, hopefully searching her face.

"Of course I do! It's lovely."

"It…belonged to my mother."

She looks up at him with uneasy eyes. "Oh, but — I can't possibly accept this."

His face falls. "Why ever not?"

"Because…it's so precious. It was _hers."_

"And now it is yours, darling," he says, taking the bracelet and clasping it around her wrist. "She would have wanted the girl I love to have it."

"Thank you," she sincerely says, holding her arm out and admiring her gift. "It's so…_elegant,_ though. I almost don't feel worthy to wear it." She laughs. "I mean, here I am, covered in flour…"

"It is a bracelet fit for a queen, darling," he says, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her up to him, not minding the flour one bit. "In which case, you are more than worthy enough to wear it."

* * *

As always, Yao is waiting for Arthur in the stables when he returns.

One look at the severe expression on his face, at the displeased lines around his mouth that only seem to deepen with each passing day, is all it takes for the young stable hands to silently slip away and leave their Jack alone with their Queen.

"Hullo, Yao," Arthur greets, leaping down from the saddle and bowing extravagantly.

Yao, stately in his disapproval, only looks him up and down. "Your Majesty."

"These are for you, my friend," Arthur says, offering him a small mint green and pink polka doted box.

Yao turns his nose up at the gift.

"What's all this, then?" Arthur asks, determinedly waving the box under Yao's nose. "They're almond biscuits. Your favorite."

"I am not hungry."

"She made them especially for you."

Yao slaps the box out of Arthur's hand.

"Just how much longer do you intend to string that poor girl along?" he demands.

Arthur's mouth drops in astonishment.

"Explain yourself_ this instant,"_ he fumes.

"You have nothing to offer her. This is not fair to her by _any_ stretch of the imagination. You are only going to break her heart again."

The color drains from Arthur's face.

_Again?_

"What did you say?" he whispers.

"You heard me. I said you are only going to break her heart."

"No — there was something else. After that."

Yao blinks and turns his head slightly, his rigid expression finally cracking. "But I did not say anything after that?"

"Yes, you _did,"_ Arthur insists, "you said — "

"I know perfectly well what I did and did not say!" Yao shouts. "It is not _I_ who needs to watch his words, Your Majesty, for unlike you, I have nothing to hide."

He gathers his robes and heads up stairwell.

_"Selfish man,"_ he mutters.

* * *

"Got somethin' for you," Willem tells Marie one day, but his face falls ever so slightly when he notices the purple and blue bracelet on her arm.

He holds her forearm and inspects the bracelet.

"Isn't it pretty?" she asks.

In response, Willem gives her a noncommittal grunt. "He give this to you?"

"Yes. It belonged to his mother."

"Amethyst and lapis lazuli. Those're hard to come by." He releases her arm. "What does he do?"

"His family's been in trade for years. Which means he travels a lot, so I don't get to see him that often. Just that one day a week."

"Wednesday."

She nods. "His work is the reason why _he_ always comes to visit_ me_ — it's easier that way because of his crazy schedule and all his appointments. Well, that, and I think he's just very old fashioned. I think it's important for him to come court me. Which is so different from the boys in Hearts and the way they do things, but…" She shrugs, running her fingers over the bright stones. "I don't know. I kind of like it."

"Must be serious 'bout you."

"Maybe," she says, smiling warmly, and the blush that spreads across her cheeks doesn't go unnoticed by her brother. "I hope so. But what was it you said you had for me?"

Willem tightly clutches the gold bracelet inlaid with pink and white stones in his pocket, and tells her she must have misheard him.

* * *

As it turns out, there are three tradesmen in Spades City who go by the name of Arthur.

One is portly and of middle age with a comical moustache as wide as the rest of him is. Another is in his eighties and walks with a cane under one arm, his granddaughter supporting the other. The third is a young spice trader with bright red hair and a face full of freckles.

They are all named Arthur, but none of them are the young, slim, blond-haired Arthur his sister talks about.

* * *

"Lapis lazuli isn't hard to come by," the jewelry vendor in the Spades bazaar explains, "if you know the right people and have enough money. But amethyst? Now, that's something entirely different. It's incredibly rare — so rare that throughout the entire world, only the Spades royal family is known to have it in their possession. Purple is the royal color, in fact, because amethyst is only naturally found in Spades. So even if the gentleman you speak of _were_ in trade, as you say, it would still be mighty difficult for him to come across it in his travels. I'd even go so far as to say it's impossible."

* * *

"Jack."

"Yes, Will?"

"How many Arthurs do you know?"

"Well, that's a silly question! I only know the one."

"The Queen of Spades."

"Yep! Why?"

* * *

"You love 'im?"

Willem knows the answer even as the question leaves his lips, because he's always thought his sister was pretty, but she's absolutely _beautiful_ when she talks about Arthur.

"I do," she says, her skin glowing, her eye dancing. "I love him _so much,_ Will. It hurts when I'm not with him, like a — like there's a weight in my chest, and sometimes it feels like it could pull me so far down I couldn't ever get back up again. And — I know, I'm rambling, I know, and it's probably the last thing you want to hear, but — when he's with me he makes me feel like I'm the most important person in the whole world. He makes me feel so _special,_ more than anyone else ever has."

He knew this day would eventually come. And he _wants_ to be happy for her, because he's not heartless. He knows he has a reputation for being detached and emotionless. Cold. As unresponsive as a rock. Kiku could tell them all otherwise. That Willem is indeed a rock — strong and steadfast. Dependable to a fault. Kiku knows the truth better than anyone.

(And — maybe one day — if the two of them are very lucky — )

Willem rubs his nose. "I think you're special. Always have. You're all the family I got, y'know. Sis — "

"Mmm?"

He knows what he plans to do next Wednesday will devastate her.

But he also knows that he still must do it.

"…nothin'."

He knows it'll hurt. He just doesn't know who it'll end up hurting more — her, in the throes of heartbreak, or himself, to see her in such a state.

* * *

Arthur is surprised, upon entering the bakery the following Wednesday, to find someone already sitting in his seat at Marie's counter.

But then the figure turns, and surprise turns to alarm when he realizes it's Willem and the vague memories swirl in his brain — times he's visited Kiku, or when Kiku has visited him, Willem in tow.

"Arthur!" Marie cheerfully exclaims, coming around the corner and running up to him.

The two men stare at each other.

"I've already told you two so much about each other," Marie says, hugging Arthur's arm and beaming, "but now you can finally meet in person."

Arthur looks scared, Willem thinks, like a little bitch, because he knows what he's been doing is wrong — knew it was wrong and yet _kept doing it. _Continued to make a fool of his sister.

_Nobody_ treats his little sister like that.

"Sis," Willem says, his eyes never leaving Arthur's, "do you know who this man is?"

Arthur nervously swallows. He can feel the Watch ticking in his blood.

"Well, yes. He's my Arthur."

"He's the Queen of Spades."

Marie doesn't hesitate to scoff and roll her eyes. "Oh, _whatever,_ Will. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

Her smile drifts away as she looks from one man to the other.

"Why is no one saying anything?" she asks. "What's going on?"

"Tell her," Willem orders Arthur.

"Tell me what?"

"Do it._ Now."_

Confused, Marie looks up at Arthur. "I don't understand. What does he want you to tell me?"

Arthur manages to pull his eyes away from Willem. He briefly meets Marie's eyes before dejectedly hanging his head.

"It's true," he admits.

"You two have _got_ to be kidding me," she says, withdrawing her arm from Arthur's and stepping away from him. "That's ridiculous. It's _impossible._ Is this a joke? Because I'm not stupid, I'm not going to fall for it. This _isn't funny,_ you two."

"I've seen him at Hearts Castle," Willem speaks up. "He's friends with Kiku."

She looks up at Arthur, and has never seen his eyes more impossibly sad. She's never seen him like this — so distraught, so _uncomfortable,_ as though he was struggling just to stay alive.

Arthur hasn't lifted his eyes from the floor. "I knew Willem's name before you ever mentioned it because I knew him from his portrait."

"Arthur — "

"When Francis told you the Queen was ill that night," he quietly continues, "he thought you meant _his_ queen — Queen Lily — because I was present. But you were confused because you were expecting to see the Queen of Spades there, weren't you?"

Willem walks to his sister. "Jack said he only knows one Arthur, Sis."

She shakes her head, unable — and perhaps a bit unwilling — to comprehend it all. She walks away from them, holding a hand to her head as she wanders around her little shop.

"This is — " Memories of the past months flash before her. "But — " Things she's asked, the ways he's responded. "I don't — "

As bewildered and upset as she is, this startling revelation isn't enough to make her fall out of love with him. On the contrary — she walks back to Arthur and takes his hand, looks up at him with pleading eyes, because she's still clinging to the hope that this is all just a huge mistake. That he's still nothing more than her blueberry-addicted stick-in-the-mud.

"Why didn't you just _tell_ me?"

"I tried," Arthur blurts, beginning to panic. "I _swear_ I tried — I wanted to tell you so badly — you must believe me — I never wished to — "

_"Wait."_ She jerks her hand from his so hard it makes him wince. "If you're the Queen, then you — you're _married?_ To King Alfred?"

Helpless and ashamed, Arthur nods.

"Oh, _no."_ She reels away from him, her lip trembling. "No. No, no, no. Oh, _damn it._ Oh — "

_The King was so nice and he hugged me — but all the while I was —_

Horrified, she covers her mouth with a shaking hand.

"You're _married_ and you _kissed me?"_ she shouts, her face contorting in disgust. "You're _married_ and you — you told me you _loved _me, and — and — "

"Marie — " Arthur makes to close the space between them. "Darling — "

Willem places himself between them.

"Don't you _darling_ her," he snarls. "You fuckin' lowlife asshole. You ain't nothin' but _trash, _you shitbag."

"Marie, it's not — " Arthur turns and walks away, pulling at his hair in frustration. He's trying to gather and organize his fitful thoughts, trying to rack his brain for ways to explain himself and keep her from despising him, but he can't help feeling as though everything were slipping away from him — all coherent thought, all articulate expression, his sanity, _her._

"There's no love between me and Alfred," he tries to explain, rounding on them. "None. There never was any — _never._ Darling, if you only knew the truth of the situation, how things truly were between me and him — he's the man I was always complaining about, the one I told you I absolutely loathed — "

He can hear her gasping, trying so hard to keep from sobbing.

"Darling, I _beg_ you, let me explain — "

Willem glares at him. "You're not explaining _anything_ to her."

"Why were you hiding so much from me?" Marie asks, walking out from behind Willem, who throws an arm around her. "I feel so stupid now, and so — so _used._ So embarrassed. Did you just never trust me? Or — "

The tears pooling in her eyes finally slide down her cheeks.

"Was this all some kind of sick game to you? Was spending time with me just a way for you to alleviate your boredom,_ Your Majesty?_ Was I just some silly amusement to you? A way to pass the time? Did you feel sorry for me because I was the poor bakery girl with the ugly scar who didn't have any friends?"

"No, _no,"_ Arthur says, frantic and reaching out for her, "of _course_ it wasn't like that! Far from it! Darling, I — I love you — "

Willem narrows his eyes.

"Don't listen to 'im," he sneers. "Don't waste any more time or breath on 'im. He'll only give you excuses and stories. Not the truth."

"Will — " Marie tries to pull herself out of her brother's grasp. "You're hurting me — "

"He's not worth it," Willem gruffly continues. "And I won't have him houndin' you any longer."

Releasing his sister, Willem roughly grabs Arthur by the collar and drags him out of the shop. Marie gasps, covering her mouth with her hand as she watches them.

Hauling Arthur out into the street, Willem hurls him to the ground. Passersby stop and stare.

"I don't care if you _are _the Queen," Willem quietly, furiously seethes as he leans over Arthur. "To me, you are _filth._ You ever come back to her shop — you ever speak to her again or even _look _at her — I'll put your head on a fuckin' pike."

He spits in Arthur's face before walking back into the bakery, the front door slamming shut behind him.

* * *

At first, she felt like a fool.

Then, a hypocrite.

But more than anything, she felt lonely.

Despite Willem's warning, Arthur can't help himself and goes back to see her. She listens in silence as he explains and apologizes — miserably and profusely and still so ardently in love with her — because he does owe her that much. And, eventually, she puts a finger to his lips to quiet him.

She supposes there are reasons she shouldn't take him back. There _had_ to be.

Or were there?

(Life is so short.)

She pulls him down to her and breathes her love into his mouth and his soul as she kisses him, writing her name all across his heart.

* * *

Monday afternoon, the bell rings above her door.

"Arthur, dear," Marie shouts from her backroom, "I'm glad you came back, you forgot your — "

Making her way into the front room, she stops in her tracks, freezing.

"Today ain't Wednesday," Willem says.

His face hardens. "Bastard changed his days. Been coming to see you, hasn't he?"

She defiantly raises her chin.

"Don't lie, Sis."

Marie goes to her little sink behind the counter and begins grabbing dishes out of the drying rack, putting them away in places they don't belong — anything, just so she doesn't have to meet his eyes.

"You deserve better."

"We all deserve better in this life," she snaps, "but we just have to make do with what the Fates have given us. And maybe love isn't about what you deserve. Maybe it's just…what you can't help."

"You deserve someone who can take care of you. Provide for you. Keep you safe."

"I don't need — !" she starts, glass bowls clattering as she drops one into the other. One breaks into five uneven pieces. "You've kept me safe my entire life. I know you mean well, Will, but I want to live _my_ life now. The life I've made here, in Spades — not the life you and everybody back home wanted me to have."

"A life with a liar? A coward who can't — "

"Don't you talk about him that way! You don't know him."

"Neither do you. Don't defend him."

"He _loves me,"_ she declares, a little mad and entirely Arthur's (aren't they the same thing?), wheeling around to face her brother. "He loves me and he's never tried to tell me how to live my life. He doesn't treat me like a china doll, like I'm something fragile that needs to be hidden away. He knows I'm strong enough to actually _live_ my life, and he knows I don't need anyone else to live it for me."

She walks around the corner and comes up to him. "He would never try to _smother_ me."

At that, Willem's rigidly proud posture goes slack and his shoulder droop.

"Just want you to be safe," he says.

"I know," she sighs, "I know. But I'm going to mistakes in life, Will. Nobody can stop that. Not even you, even though you've always tried to."

She blinks. "Not that Arthur's a mistake," she quickly amends. "And I'm not stupid. I know this is wrong — but — I can't — I'm just so _confused,_ and so _exhausted — "_

"He can't give you the life you deserve," Willem says, and to his surprise, his voice breaks. Something heavy and blunt and undeniable turns in his chest as he thinks of all the times Kiku has walked past him, and he wasn't even allowed to reach out and take his Queen's hand.

He knows when this fantasy breaks, so will she, because he was broken over Kiku long ago.

"Trust me, Sis. Sometimes love ain't enough."

"I don't want to talk about this," she suddenly says, throwing up her hands. "You and Queen Kiku can't ever have a life together, but that doesn't stop _you,_ does it?"

He clenches his jaw. "That's different."

_"How _is that different?" she shouts. _"How?_ Don't talk down to me when you're doing the same exact thing I am."

"It's hard being in love with a Queen!" Willem shouts back, and it makes his sister jump, for he never raises his voice. "I don't want that for you! I don't want you to wake up every morning and think, _Is this it? Isn't there ever going to be any more?"_

Marie stares at him, her face turning a bright shade of red as tears pool in her eyes.

Sighing heavily, and feeling every bit of it echo within his tired heart, his tired bones, he takes her in his arms.

"C'mere," he wearily says, and lets her cry against his chest.

* * *

"Jack."

"Yes, Will?"

"Need you to do somethin' for me."

"Oh, um — sure, Will, sure! Anything you need, _a-ha._ But you don't look so good. Those are your scary eyes. It's kinda freaking me out. W-what's going on?"

* * *

On dark, rainy days like today, no one visits Marie — not even her most loyal customers — but the rain did nothing to deter Arthur from coming to her.

"Look at you!" she exclaimed as he stood in her doorway. "You're soaking wet!"

"I wanted to see you," is all he says, and she shakes her head at him.

She took him into the back room and made him strip down to nothing but his trousers, even insisting he remove his boots and socks. She made him sit next to her stove, hanging his clothes up to dry next to the other one in the corner.

"I hope you don't get sick," she says, coming down the stairs, a blanket and a small bath towel in her hands. Draping the blanket over his shivering shoulders, she sets about drying his wet hair with the towel.

"You know," she says, "I just remembered. Things happened and I never got to tell you about my other birth cards. One is the Queen of Wands. I don't really know what it means, though." She sighs, removing the towel and combing her fingers through his damp hair. He shivers again, but not from the rain. "I don't know what _any_ of the cards mean. I know they're tradition, but they're all so _vague._ Do they drag us along through life, or are they just a warning? If you looked into your future and saw something bad, wouldn't you do everything you could to change it?"

A loud clap of thunder startles them.

After a moment, Arthur says: "I don't think we need be completely bound by them."

"I don't know," she says, unconvinced. "It makes you wonder. And _somebody_ must have made the Fates angry, somehow."

"What do you mean?" he asks, watching as she tosses the towel on the table and leans against it.

"Have you been to the Time Shrine lately?"

"No."

"It's sealed off."

"Sealed off?"

She nods. "One day the stones and pillars just started rearranging themselves, blocking off all the entrances. The Shrine Guards were terrified when it happened and they were barely able to get out in time. No one can find a way in and no one's been inside to worship for months."

She bites her lip. "How come you didn't know?" she hesitantly asks. "Isn't the royal family supposed to protect the Watch inside the Shrine?"

Arthur can't blame her for the way she looks at him. Why she'd ever deign to trust him again, he'll never know.

"Sometimes…my magic has the unwanted side-effect of partially erasing my memories."

_I don't want to lie to her anymore. All I wanted was to be with her. Why do things never turn out the way I intended?_

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know. But if that's the trade off, is having your magic really worth it, then, you think?"

Clutching the blanket, he holds out his arms for her. She slides onto his lap and he wraps the blanket around them.

He sighs as he gazes at her face. Sometimes his heart hurts over her, a profound ache that sweeps over him and leaves him laboring for air, and he has no idea why.

"Why do you look so sad all of a sudden?" she gently asks.

"You know I love you, don't you?" he asks, unable to comprehend the sudden, overwhelming need he has to know she knows.

She nods.

He brushes his thumb along her cheekbone. "My magic has only ever failed me once — "

_No white magic?_

" — but I'm determined to never let that happen again."

"Well, just as long as your magic doesn't make you forget about _me."_

"That would never happen. No matter who or what or when we were, I would never forget you."

She smiles and traces his collarbone with her finger. "Good."

* * *

"You're dismissed, Jack."

"Um, dismissed?"

"Yeah. Spyin' on my sister's wrong. 'S not right."

"Oh, _good!_ Because I really, really, really don't like being a spy, you know? Well, that, and I heard something the other night about Arthur knowing magic, which is _really_ bad business and I don't think I want to get mixed up in all that because you know what they say about magic — "

* * *

Yao has a habit of never tarrying in one area of the castle for too long. He likes to wander about, checking up on things and generally making himself available should his King or Queen ever find himself in need of him. And if _he_ ever needs _them,_ he more often than not has no qualms whatsoever about barging in and demanding their attention.

So when he politely requests an audience with them one morning, they both know something is terribly wrong.

"It is with profound regret," Yao reads aloud, his hands trembling as he clutches the parchment — this, too, alarms Arthur and Alfred — "that the Kingdom of Hearts declares war on the Kingdom of Spades."

_"What?"_ Alfred shouts, his jaw nearly dropping to the floor.

Arthur, stunned and speechless, can do nothing but stare at Yao.

"Yao, are you _kidding_ me?"

"Belt up," Arthur quietly commands Alfred, half-heartedly raising a hand to silence the boy. "Let him continue."

Yao takes a deep breath and stares at the declaration in his hand for a few moments before continuing: "Hearts and Spades have co-existed together peacefully for centuries and there has been much brotherhood between our two nations since the days of our alliance during the Great War. Regardless of how close our two exalted nations may have once been, Hearts now asks that Spades consider any and all connection between us severed, as our reasons for declaring war are twofold."

"This oughtta be good," Alfred mutters. "What have we ever done to them?"

"Reason the first: The lack of any action taken on the part of Spades to defend the shared borderlands with Hearts from the wandering dragons native to their kingdom."

"Oh, _shit,"_ Alfred breathes. "Have dragons been attacking the Hearts side?"

"It would appear so," Arthur mutters.

"I've been so busy focusin' on the pirates and the grain shortage that I didn't stop to even think about the dragons. But _still,_ I mean — that's pretty weak, ain't it? The dragons are _both_ our problem, and it's not like we ever just set 'em loose on Hearts, right?"

"Reason the second," Yao continues. "Intelligence has been gathered regarding the recent resurgence of magic in Spades."

Arthur's eyes widen.

"This is not an accusation we take pleasure in making or make lightly. Upon further investigation after the initial intelligence was brought to the King and Queen's attention, it has been confirmed there are sorcerers and witches living in Spades, concealing their true identities and covertly taking on pupils. There are even rumors that the use of magic is openly condoned throughout the kingdom, as — "

Yao squints at the parchment. "This cannot be right."

"What is it?" Alfred asks. "Tell us, tell us!"

" — as even the Queen of Spades himself has been rumored to know magic."

As Yao and Alfred stare at him, Arthur's heart races.

Only Yao and Marie are aware he knows magic, and he trusts both of them with his life.

_How did anyone in Hearts find out?_

"This is _absurd,"_ Arthur indignantly declares. "Surely no one is daft enough to actually _believe_ these accusations?"

"Somebody believed it enough to decide to declare war," Yao says, folding up the parchment.

"This is bad," Alfred says. "This is _so, so_ bad. What are we gonna do?"

"For the time being," Yao says as he rises from his seat and walks to the door, "we must call an emergency session of Parliament. All the senators must be made aware of the situation at once."

"Just a moment, Yao," Arthur suddenly says. "Hold off on alerting the senators."

"Hold off?" Yao asks, incredulous. "With all due respect, Your Majesty, that is not wise. We must start preparing for war immediately."

"I understand that. But give me three days. I may be able to discover what has happened, and I might be able to stop it."

* * *

_Kiku,_ Arthur writes, _put a stop to this nonsense at once. There is absolutely no reason for us to go to war._

_Queen Arthur,_ Kiku writes back, _under the present circumstances, I do not believe it would be wise for us to communicate. Please do not contact me again until hostilities between our nations have ceased._

But Arthur remains undeterred: _Do not insult us both by hiding behind dragons and magic as excuses. Kiku, if we were ever truly friends, as I believed us to be, you will give me the real reason behind all this._

_Arthur —_

Several lines of Kiku's handwriting are blotted out.

_Queen Arthur, all I will say is that our Six is responsible not only for my personal well-being, but by extension, he is also responsible for the safety of his country. Until the war has reached its conclusion —_

More lines are blotted out.

_I remain a fervent opponent of unnecessary bloodshed, and I look forward to working closely with you again someday._

Arthur crushes the letter in his hand and hurls it into the fireplace. He has a fairly good idea of who put the idea of war into Kiku and Ludwig's heads, and why.

_My brother has the biggest, best heart of anyone I know, _Marie once told him during their original time_. But the thing is — for all his good heart, for as much as he cares, sometimes he cares too much. Sometimes he doesn't realize he's holding on too tight._

* * *

The war does not begin in earnest until two months after the initial declaration.

In a dreary room of the Parliament building which quickly became one of the official War Rooms, Arthur clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides. It's the only thing keeping him from reaching out and strangling Alfred.

_"You,"_ he says, his voice low and menacing and measured, "are a _twat."_

"Arthur — "

"You are the _stupidest_ man ever born of woman, and I am utterly ashamed to know you."

"I only did what I thought was right — "

Arthur slams his fist on the table between them.

"What you felt was _right?"_ he shouts. "Alfred, you have ruined any _possible_ chance of peace we might have once had. You have ruined _everything, _you _worthless piece of shit."_

"They shot first…"

"I don't fucking _care_ who shot first! It was one arrow, Alfred — _one_ — and Ludwig immediately ordered his troops to hold. That arrow, in all likelihood, belonged to an inexperienced chap who was probably _pissing_ himself, he was so frightened. Did you stop to consider, Alfred? Did you ever stop to _think?"_

Arthur, in his anger, paces back and forth.

"Oh, no," he continues, waving an accusatory finger at Alfred, "no, of _course_ you didn't. One must actually have a _brain_ to have thoughts, mustn't one?"

Arthur stops his pacing and shakes his head at Alfred.

"It was a slaughter, Alfred. A senseless slaughter. And now Ludwig is _dead_ because of you and your incredibly rash decision, you useless imbecile."

"You weren't there!" Alfred accuses. "You should have been there to tell me what to do."

Arthur throws his head back in frustration. _"Always_ this _talk_ of me telling you what to do! The both of us could not possibly have been there at the same time! One of us must stay alive in the event the other is killed."

"Then you should have taught me better! You should have taught me something — anything!"

"Don't you _dare_ put this on me."

"Why not? It's just as much your fault as it is mine. What do you expect to happen when you purposely leave everything to the one person who doesn't know what the hell he's doing? I — "

Alfred covers his face with his hands.

"I only wanted to help people. But now that I know what being a King is really like — I don't want any part of it anymore. I just — I just wanna go _home."_

He crosses his arms over the desk and buries his face in them. He sniffs, and Arthur's fairly certain he's crying.

And far from berating Alfred for being so weak as to cry, Arthur finds he wants to cry, too. He hasn't any heart to fight back against Alfred's accusations, to mercilessly continue placing any and all blame on the boy, because —

Because Arthur knows he's right.

Faced with the reality of his callousness toward Alfred all these years — his prideful spite over an imagined slight he's been obsessively fixating on — his unjustifiable malice toward someone who never _actually_ wronged him —

Arthur finally recognizes himself as the brutish, bullying monster he was all along.

And he can plainly see what all his petty cruelness shall cost them. The long years this meaningless war could drag out — this war which began in such a preposterous manner, but which has now turned very serious indeed — the countless, inevitable orphans, their parents taken from them too soon, much like his and Marie's were — all the technological advances since the Great War occurred, all the different and foul ways they will be used to wreak death and harbor mindless destruction —

Arthur walks to Alfred and, after a moment of hesitation, places his hand upon the boy's back.

"What's gonna happen now?" Alfred asks, his voice small and childlike.

And Arthur, the man with all the education and all the answers Alfred has always so desperately sought, says: "I've no idea. Now that Kiku has named Willem regent — " He shakes his head. "I honestly have no idea."

* * *

In the dark of the night, long after her shop's been closed but before she's fallen asleep, Marie often thinks back to the days of her childhood with Willem. Ever since the war started, she keeps replaying in her head the time she stole her neighbor's grapes.

None of the consequences scared her back then, but they do now.

There's a frantic knocking at her door. Startled, she takes a few deep breaths to calm herself. She picks up one of the candles from her bedside table and hurries down the stairs.

As soon as she unlocks and opens the door, Arthur removes the hood of his cloak and sweeps into the room, extinguishing her candle as he does so.

_"Darling,"_ he breathlessly greets her, squeezing her shoulders and quickly looking her over.

He shuts and locks the door. Grabbing her hand, he dashes up the stairs to her bedroom. She drops the candle as he pulls her along.

"Quickly," he entreats her, "we've not a moment to spare."

Upon entering her room: "You've a trunk, haven't you?"

She nods.

"Where?"

She points toward the bed. He drags her trunk out from under it, sets it on her bed and immediately sets about going through the contents of her wardrobe.

"I came to warn you, love," he explains, haphazardly stuffing items of clothing into her trunk, the candles fluttering after every movement he makes. "You must leave as quickly as you can. I've already procured you a comfortable room at the Beoulve Inn, on the outskirts of the city. You and every other civilian need to vacate the market and financial districts posthaste."

He grabs a pair of shoes and stuffs them in the trunk. Glancing around her room, he looks for other items to pack. Her hairbrush, tooth powder, what else — what else?

"What's happened?" she quietly asks, her voice raspy.

"Willem is planning to attack the city sometime before dawn. They've joined with the pirates, and they intend to attack our ports, whereupon they shall sweep into the city and attack the market and the financial districts. They want to begin by wounding us economically. No trading house, no business will be safe, and the Hearts and the pirates are under no orders to discriminate between a blacksmith who can forge a sword for a soldier and a toymaker."

He pauses to briefly catch her eye. "Or a baker."

He returns to packing her trunk. "With only a few hours' notice, we've had a devil of a time trying to prepare for their arrival. And it was the queerest thing — I happened upon Feliciano, of all people, on my way here. What the bloody hell that fool is doing in Spades during a time of war is beyond me. I could barely understand a word he was saying — his words were tumbling out of his mouth at such a speed I could scarcely make them out. He sounded almost as if he were apologizing for something, which is, of course, ridiculous. But he _was_ able to confirm what our spies said, and — "

He pauses, not liking the look in her eyes.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Don't you see?" she whispers. "It's because of _us_ that all this is even happening."

"What? Darling, no."

He holds his hand out to her, but she doesn't take it.

"I knew it was wrong for us to see each other, but I didn't think we were hurting anyone. But Arthur — don't you see? Don't you see how many people we're going to hurt? Willem would never have put the idea of war into Queen Kiku's head, and then Queen Kiku would never have put it into King Ludwig's head if he wasn't upset because we were together. And — "

The candles cast shadows upon the shadows under her eyes.

"King Ludwig is _dead_ because of us."

"No, he's not — "

"Yes, he _is!"_ she shouts. "You can't deny it! And so many more innocent people are going to die, and I can't sleep at night because I _know_ it's the truth, and I — I can't _stand_ it."

She takes a shuddering breath and sadly shakes her head.

"It wasn't worth it," she whispers. "We weren't worth it. Not this, not ever."

Had she cut open his chest and ripped his heart from within him, she could not have pained him more.

"Don't say that," he begs her.

"I — I didn't want to have to choose between you and my brother."

He shakes his head. "But I never made you — "

"No, you didn't. But I was stupid and thought I could have both, and I was wrong. And look how wrong! Look at what's happening! I don't know how soon I can get word to Will, but I'm going to let him know that you and I won't ever see each other again, and then maybe they'll find a way to stop the fighting."

"You can't mean that," he pleads. "You _can't."_

A tear rolls down her cheek, and as she wipes it away, others follow after.

"S-sometimes love isn't e-enough," she whispers, crying in earnest now. "Arthur — _please._ Just — just go."

He pulls her into his arms then, and she clings to him, sobbing.

"Darling, you must go to the inn tonight," he gently murmurs against her hair. "Whether you truly wish to end things between us or not, just — pack your things and go to the inn. You'll be safe there. They won't attack an inn filled with civilians — Willem would never allow it since his own sister is one of them. You must _promise me_ you shall do this."

She nods. "Alright."

He pulls away and brushes her hair from her wet face.

"We were meant for each other, darling," he tells her, resting his forehead against hers and squeezing his eyes shut. "I know it with every fiber of my wretched being. There is nothing that can keep us apart if we do not wish it."

Sniffling, she nods.

"I'll find you at the inn once this is all over. I'll come for you, I swear it. But until then — " He kisses her forehead, her eyes, her scar. "Be safe."

He hurries out of her bedroom, extinguishing the other candles as he goes. She hears him fly down the stairs, open and close the front door, and he is gone.

* * *

With no time to organize a decent opposition to the invaders, Alfred and Arthur focused on getting as many people to safety as possible and quelling the ensuing panic. At the first sight of the first ship, the two of them were taken and hidden away deep within a secret underground chamber of the Parliament building.

When it was finally determined, sometime during the misty grey of early morning, that the attack had passed and it was once again safe within Spades City, the two of them headed out to survey the damage.

Their entire market district and all their financial institutions are gutted.

"What are we gonna do?" Alfred asks, looking around at the smoking, black damage.

Arthur sighs and pats Ifrit's nose as the animal nudges his shoulder. "There's nothing _to_ do, really. We shall be able to form a better course of action when the knights surveying the area have an estimate of what our losses are." He glances toward the spot on the High Street where Marie's bakery once stood. "But…until then…"

"I hope they hurry. The sooner they get that info to us, the sooner we can pay those bastards back."

"Not likely." Arthur sadly shakes his head. "Oh, Alfred. You idiot. Don't you see? Henceforth, Spades is entirely on the defensive."

* * *

"Your Majesties," a young knight calls, running up to them, "it's worse than we thought."

He doubles over, resting his hands on his knees as he tries to catch his breath.

"What is it, lad?" Arthur asks. "What's happened?"

Having gotten his breathing under control, the young man straightens and lets out one final sigh.

"Well, Sire, the Hearts and their pirate allies attacked the ports and the market and the financial districts, just like we expected. But then they swept further into the city — much further than we anticipated. It's a blessing indeed you two were taken to the Parliament building, as the castle came under attack at one point. And then they started attacking the civilians."

"The civilians?" Alfred asks, running a hand through his hair. "You serious?"

"Yes, Sire. The Hearts were ruthless. I think they were still upset about losing King Ludwig. Regent Willem tried to stop them, really he did — he tried to get them all back under control, but they refused to follow orders and fall back, and — well. By that time it was already too late. So many civilian houses in the residential wards were looted and burned. And now, all those poor, homeless people…"

The knight rubs the back of his neck, his eyes haunted. "And what happened at the Beoulve Inn was worst of all."

"What happened at the Beoulve?" Arthur slowly asks, the ticking of the Watch pounding furiously in his head.

"Yeah," Alfred chimes in. "That's where we told most of the civilians to go."

"Those sick bastards locked everyone inside, and then — " The knight shudders. "And then they set fire to the building."

* * *

The ride to the inn is a blur: One moment, Arthur was mounting Ifrit, and the next, he was falling out of the saddle, stumbling on his feet before the scorched remains of the inn.

_Not again — not again — let it not be true — anything but this —_

There is a man within the skeletal leftovers, frantically searching on his hands and knees amongst the ash and the charred corpses. When he rises to his feet, Arthur recognizes Willem's face.

His eyes are red. His face is dirty from soot and smoke, the trails of his tears visible amongst the black.

_"You," _Willem seethes when he finally sees Arthur. He advances, and Arthur has never seen a more frightening image in his life.

With one swift motion, Willem reels back and hits Arthur square in the face. Arthur stumbles backward and cradles his bleeding nose.

"This is your fault," Willem accuses, his voice so hoarse Arthur barely recognizes it. "You did this. _You."_

"Willem — "

"Jack told me you visited her last night," Willem says, punching Arthur in the face again. "Then he saw her leave, heading for the inn. You told her to go there, _didn't you."_

Arthur, sagging forward and finding it impossible to breathe through his nose, holds up a hand.

"I thought — " He squints, unsure whether the ringing in his head is from the Watch or Willem's fist. "I thought she would be safe there — "

Willem punches Arthur again, knocking Arthur to the ground. Falling to his knees beside him, Willem wraps his large hands around Arthur's throat and squeezes.

"This is _your fault_ because you couldn't leave well enough alone!"

Arthur gasps and claws at Willem's hands.

"You are the reason she's dead!"

"Will…em…"

_"You are a monster! _She was all I had!"

Panicking, Arthur kicks his legs, desperately struggling to free himself.

Willem finally removes his hands from Arthur's throat. Arthur gasps and coughs.

"This is all that's left of her," Willem says, flinging the bracelet that once belonged to Arthur's mother in his face. "You're the reason I don't have anything left of her to even bury."

Willem draws his arm back and pummels Arthur's face over and over. He doesn't stop until Arthur blacks out.

* * *

When Arthur eventually regains consciousness, Willem is nowhere to be found.

His head feels heavy and his face is already beginning to bruise and swell. He needs air, and sluggishly rolls onto his side to try and catch some.

The smoldering remains of the inn are before him, and the sight of it makes him retch.

_Willem is right. All of this is my fault._

His eyesight blurs, a result of the tears he's unaware he's shedding due to the pain and pressure in his head. He reaches out his hand toward the inn, but it falls heavily against the ground.

_Why didn't you take me instead? I don't want her to die anymore. And I want Ludwig to live. I want Willem to be happy again._

He fumbles in his pocket for the Watch, but it slips from his fingers and clatters against the ground.

"Change — " He coughs, choking on his own blood. "Change the Fates' design."

_Selfish man. Have you learned nothing?_

"Do it."

* * *

_You are fracturing Time, Arthur of Spades. How shall you piece it back together?_

* * *

Arthur's hands are bound before him, the rope digging into his wrists and burning out the blood.

He's pushed and tugged up the steps to the scaffold, and amongst the jeering crowd, Alfred sits upon a white horse.

"You are guilty of the crime of treason," he announces, pointing to the empty noose.

Marie is waiting for him, swaying in her own noose.

"No," he whispers. "Not like this — change it — "

* * *

"What have you done?" the reanimated bodily remains of Marie demand of him.

In this timeline, Arthur still doesn't know any white magic.

But he _has_ learned necromancy.

_"What have you done to me?"_ she screams.

* * *

In a vast graveyard, six Maries lie in six glass coffins, each awaiting her burial.

One is dressed in her Six of Hearts uniform; another, in her stained, faded blue dress; another, in her baker's apron.

Another —

And another —

And another —

"No," Arthur mutters, bringing his hands up to pull at his hair. "Stop. Make it stop."

_Some threads are not meant to twine._

"Tell me why I can't save her!" he screams. "Tell me _why!"_

* * *

_Selfish man! You have loved not wisely, but too well._

* * *

In the Hall of Mirrors in Spades Castle, there are dozens of Maries with their arms thrown about dozens of Arthurs' necks, but the real one desperately clings to him and whispers in his ear: "I want to be with you more than anything in the whole world."

"Yes," he whispers back, crushing her to him.

Cracks crawl along the surface of the mirrors.

"Please find a way," she whispers. "We belong together."

He opens his mouth and tries to respond — _I could never belong to anyone else_ — but the words refuse to come.

The cracks grow larger on the mirrors, multiplying like ferocious lightning on a clear night. As the mirrors shatter, Arthur hunches over to protect her from the shards raining down upon them.

* * *

_Those born of Spades are meant to protect Time, not unravel it._

* * *

She's standing on the beach with her hands clasped behind her back, gazing out at the sea.

Arthur can't explain it, but he knows she's waiting for him. He knows he could get to her — he knows he could find a way or make one — were it not for all the strings separating him from her, all the ropes, threads and ribbons knotted together.

He calls out to her, but he's lost his voice again. He tries screaming her name, but the roar of the ocean overtakes him.

He looks down at his boots. The tide is coming in — it's rising, flooding the beach — it's sweeping him away —

* * *

_How shall you put right these myriad wrongs of yours?_

* * *

"Something's not right," Alfred says, standing in the corridor outside Arthur's private rooms. The birds outside the window take off into flight, their shadows flickering across Alfred's face.

The boy rubs his shoulder and rolls his neck from side to side.

"When it's nighttime, I feel like it should be daytime, and when I'm awake during the day I feel like I should be asleep. But when I'm asleep and I'm dreaming, I keep trying to make myself wake up. I just feel so _tired_ and _worn out_ all the time. Arthur, you went to the university, I know you're smart — what's going on? Why do I feel like this?"

* * *

Willem, in the garden of Spades Castle, clutches his stomach and vomits into a patch of foxgloves.

"I feel so ill all the time," he says, bringing trembling hands up to his pale face. "M'body never feels…_right._ It's not the body I know. Not the body I'm used to. It's not _my_ body. Feels like — like I'm trapped in someone else's body."

* * *

"It's just another one of my migraines, dear," Marie explains, reclining on the sofa in their secret room and holding a wet cloth to her forehead. "I just hope there's no nosebleed this time. Well, there usually is. But hopefully it won't last for three hours like the last one did."

* * *

"I have the strangest feeling, Arthur," Kiku says.

His eyes are uneasy, darting around his sitting room as though he'd never seen it before. An open tome rests upon his lap.

"I feel as though every task I completed today, I have already done before. I feel as though I have been reading this same book for years. But — I cannot remember what it is about. I could not even tell you what the sentence I just read to myself said. I — I do not like this feeling, Arthur."

* * *

_You have sowed long enough._

* * *

Arthur stands alone on the stage of the Spades Royal Opera House.

In the audience he can see everyone — Marie, Kiku, Willem, Alfred, Yao, his parents — their faces concealed by shadow.

They're watching him, patiently waiting to see what his next action will be.

* * *

_And now, the reaping._

.

.

_*_Special shout out to my friend vinnie2757, who lets me bounce ideas off her and is straight up with me if they're shit. She's just great to know all-around.

*"For none of woman born shall harm Macbeth" from Macbeth and "one that loved not wisely, but too well" from Othello

*Ramza Beoulve from Final Fantasy Tactics is one of my babies.

*Almost done! Two chapters left. I hope to see you there! : )


	7. the emperor and the empress

**Bed of Nails**

.

_vii. the emperor and the empress_

.

When Arthur next opens his eyes, he finds himself completely alone.

Unsettling, that. The Fates have never sent him to a new time without someone nearby to act as his guide.

Leaning against the ornate headboard of a plush, canopied bed, a heap of pillows supporting him, he glances around the room and realizes, with considerable relief, he is in his own bedroom in Spades Castle. A fortunate thing, too, as he's noticed he's clad only in his underclothes.

Yet for all the comforting familiarity of finding himself in his own personal bedroom, it feels strange to him, somehow. Like a picture hanging in a frame that appears fine up close, but crooked from a few paces back. As though he'd come upon a puzzle he'd long since finished, only now to find the pieces taken apart and refusing to fit the way he remembers.

There is furniture in his room he does not recognize; the pieces he _does_ recognize have been rearranged. A large bouquet of colorful flowers sits on the bedside table. Strangest of all, in the corner of the room is a woman's vanity. A long strand of pearls has been draped over the three panels of hinged mirrors. In addition to a large powder puff and bottles of perfumes, jewelry is also strewn about, glinting in the candlelight.

And then he hears it — a sudden _tap-tap-tink-tap_ from behind the door of his washroom.

Apparently, he is not so alone as he first thought.

The door handle turns, and he scrambles to pull up the thick duvet and gather it around his hips. It's as much an attempt to find some modicum of modesty as it is an effort to find _something_ he can control amongst all these surrounding, suffocating unknowns.

His heart racing, Arthur waits to see who it could possibly be —

And Marie walks out from behind the door. Barefoot and clad only in a silk dressing gown, she runs a hand through her hair.

Arthur, slack-jawed, takes her in. Her sheer dressing gown leaves absolutely _nothing_ to his imagination. Even something as ordinary as breathing is made beautiful in the candlelight, her breasts gently rising and falling with every breath she takes.

"And just what are you staring at, sir?" she asks, smiling coquettishly at him.

He awkwardly shifts against the pillows.

"I'm not staring," he insists, though his eyes never stray from her.

"Oh, _yes,_ you are," she counters, giggling.

She walks to the vanity and sits upon the upholstered bench. Picking up her hairbrush, she runs it through her hair.

"How was your trip?" she inquires.

"Ah — "

_(Francis: "You see we are as we ever are in Diamonds — the envy of all!")_

"…Francis was his usual self."

"And how is Lily?"

_(The shy Queen of Diamonds, humming to herself as she looks over her needlework.)_

"Very well," he says, sending up a quick prayer of thanks to the Fates for these flashes of memories.

"Aw, I'm glad to hear that. I _love_ Lily, she's such a sweetheart. And, you know, I think she'll be very good for Francis." She sets her brush down and, removing the lid from a round, glass jar of lotion, dips her fingers into it and begins rubbing the cream over her arms and legs. "When she's a little older, I honestly think she's going to have him wrapped around her little finger. Can you imagine? Francis — of all men! — completely whipped."

_(Lily: "If it's not too much trouble, would you please give Marie all my love? It's really too bad she wasn't able to come with you this time, but I do understand that she's a very busy lady — I admire her and what she does so much! I hope I can be half the Queen she is someday.")_

"Lily sends her love," Arthur slowly says, but thinks: _Queen?_

"I'll write to her and we'll set up some girl time soon — no boys allowed." She winks at his reflection in the mirror. "So, did everything get settled? And with as little bodily harm as possible?"

_(Arthur slamming a document on the table before Francis. Francis crossing his arms and asking, with a simper, if Arthur wishes him to sign in ink or blood.)_

"I believe so."

"My poor Arthur!" Marie suddenly exclaims, her eyes welling with concern for him. "You sound even more tired than when you first arrived home. But don't worry, I know just what you need."

"Oh?"

"Mm-hmm." Grinning, she rises from her seat and stands before him, thrusting out her hip and resting her weight on it. "How long do you think Spades can survive without its King? Because I'm going to steal you away for a few days and there's _nothing_ you can do about it."

The dressing gown slips off one of her shoulders. She makes no effort whatsoever to adjust it, not appearing bothered by it in the slightest.

He clears his throat. "Your shoulder."

"Hmm? What about my shoulder?"

"It appears to be — _exposed."_

"Exposed shoulder?" she asks around that maddening little grin of hers. _"What_ exposed shoulder?"

He frowns. "Are you teasing me on purpose, madam, or is it at all possible I am being punished for something?"

"I had to wait _three whole weeks_ while my husband was away." She saunters up to the side of the bed. Hiking up her dressing gown, she crawls onto the bed and throws a leg over him, straddling his lap. "I think you can wait a _few_ minutes longer for me to welcome you home properly, sir."

_Queen — King — husband —_

She laces the fingers of both their hands together. With an anxious start, he sees a silver band upon his finger, a strip of pearl running through the center of it. It's a perfect match to her own ring, a cluster of three small pearls set atop a delicate silver band.

_Does this mean —_

She leans forward and lays a lingering kiss upon his forehead.

"I'm so glad you're finally home, dear," she whispers, closing her eyes and resting her forehead against his. "I missed you."

The scent of her lavender lotion makes his heart swell painfully in his chest.

"You've no idea how much _I_ missed _you,"_ he sighs. "No idea at all…"

The sash loosely holding her dressing gown together has started to come undone. Arthur stares at it for a moment, debating whether he should dare to touch it, touch _her._ He slowly lifts his hand, tracing the edge of the sash with a finger before untying it. His shaking hand finds its way behind one flap of the gown, and he rests his hand on her stomach, his thumb tracing circles around her bellybutton.

"My beautiful darling," he whispers, reveling at every single part of her. "To me, you are perfect."

Closing the lengths of love between them — the lonely, tattered lengths Arthur has traversed for what feels like years — she kisses him slowly, deliberately. Without breaking the kiss, she writhes out of the dressing gown and blindly tosses it aside. Arthur runs his hands up her smooth, warm back, drawing her close to him, skin to skin and so, so right — but he hesitates, and pulls away.

"Are you cold?" she asks, her fingers dancing across his shoulders, playing along all the lines of his muscles. "You're trembling."

"No. No. No, I only — "

He turns his head away from her, rolling his eyes in contempt at how utterly _pathetic_ he is. There were a handful of women whilst he was studying at the university, but his dalliances with them were more often hasty than not and always meaningless. He never even cared to learn their names, much less whether the encounter left them satisfied or not.

But Marie? If _she_ were ever left wanting, if _she_ were ever left dissatisfied — if he was unable to show her how precious she is to him, body and soul, where the two meet and all the delicate places in between —

"I — I don't want to — _displease_ you, or — "

_"Arthur,"_ she affectionately coos, smiling and nuzzling his cheek with her nose. "You've never, ever displeased me. Not once in three years."

She moves the duvet and the pillows aside, laying him out flat on the bed and draping herself over him.

"You worry too much, dear," she whispers as she kisses the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth, his jaw. "Let me take your mind off things."

She caresses his face and runs her fingers through his hair as she kisses him, slides her knee up higher between his legs while she drags her teeth down his neck and over his shoulder. It's supreme bliss, what she's doing to him — it's paradise on the tip of her tongue.

_I don't deserve it,_ he suddenly thinks, _I don't deserve her,_ and he's unsure if the fervent pounding in his blood is from the Watch, wherever it is, or his heart.

He eventually manages to relax beneath her, lets all her sweet ministrations take him captive. His fingers curl around her hips, and the curve of her spine is so extraordinarily dear to him, the dip of her shoulder blades so flawless, the weight of her body against his beyond compare.

Rolling them over, he lays her head upon the pillow and gazes down at her.

"I love you," he simply says, his heart too full to say anything else.

She smiles up at him. "I know."

"No, I — I love you, Marie." He wraps his arms under and around her, enveloping her. "Endlessly. More than I could ever tell you or show you. More than you'll ever know."

And he's so disheartened at having lost her so many times, so exhausted from watching her die and so overwhelmingly sick at heart —

"Tell me you love me," he quietly entreats her, burying his face in her neck.

His eyes water. He squeezes them shut.

_Tell me this time is the right one. Tell me the Fates aren't hiding anything. Tell me I won't hurt you this time._

"Arthur?" She rubs his back and pets his hair. "Look at me."

He doesn't move.

"Please?" she asks, kissing his temple.

He sniffs. After a moment, he lifts his head.

"What's the matter?" she worriedly asks, holding his face in her hands, his sad expression breaking her heart. "Please don't be sad. Smile for me?" She kisses him softly, the barest whisper of her lips to his. "You know I love you, don't you? Because I do. I love you forever."

He takes a deep breath and halfheartedly chuckles, his face crimson from embarrassment. "I'm being ridiculous, aren't I?"

"You are," she agrees, grinning up at him, and the sight of it makes him smile as well. "But you don't have to worry about anything because you're _home_ now. I have you. You're finally back with me, where you belong, I'm not going to let you go for a very, _very_ long time."

"I would like that," he murmurs, dragging his eyes away from hers, letting them roam all over her body. He lightly trails his fingers across her skin, his touch a feather-light counterbalance to the crushing depths of his heart's overflow, and the last of his fears finally dissipates.

She makes a contented little noise, shivering with every stroke. "I knew you would."

"Oh, my darling." He dips his head to run his nose along her neck, his bottom lip dragging across her skin and making her hum in pleasure. "I never wish to be parted from you again."

"You won't," she promises, wrapping her legs around him and pulling him closer to her. "I won't let you." Breathless, needy, _his:_ "You won't, you won't…"

* * *

Early the next morning, shortly after the last of the candles has burned down and only the smoky remnants remain, drifting along the air, Arthur and Marie are startled awake by a frantic banging on the door.

"My King!" Yao's voice shouts, "my Queen! The hour grows later and later! The ambassadors from Clubs are scheduled to arrive in half an hour!"

Arthur groans and rubs his face with his free hand, the other being wrapped around Marie. She moans in protest at the disturbance.

"Belt _up,_ Yao!" Arthur shouts, not even bothering to open his eyes.

"But — Your Majesty — !"

"Make something up, man! Tell them we're ill!"

Marie throws a leg over Arthur and buries her nose in his skin.

"Bad chicken," she mumbles.

"Tell them we ate bad chicken last night," Arthur shouts, "and now we have food poisoning!"

He waits for Yao to argue back, or to barge right in and drag him out from the bed by his hair — it wouldn't be the first time — but after an exasperated bellow and an _I give up, _Arthur hears Yao turn and retreat down the hallway. His footsteps grow fainter and fainter before disappearing altogether.

As Arthur shifts in the bed, Marie tucks her head under his chin.

"The King and Queen," Arthur marvels, chuckling, still not believing it.

"Mmm."

"Of Spades?"

"Don't know what else we'd be King and Queen of."

(More memories from this time make themselves known to him:

_You cannot possibly marry a woman from Hearts,_ Yao is saying.

_I will have no other,_ Arthur answers.

His old wedding ring spinning on a table —

_Is a year long enough to wait, though? _Marie is asking. _I can wait longer if we need to. I'd wait as long as it takes._

He sees them kissing before a holy man, bells joyously ringing out and a crowd cheering —

Her kneeling before him in the Time Shrine, him laying a sparkling tiara on her golden head —

_It would be unwise to set such a precedent, _Yao is saying. _Queens are not meant to play a part in the running of the country. If the two of you ever disagreed on something, it could turn out very bad indeed. Or possibly very bloody._

_The people adore her,_ Arthur answers, _and no one in Parliament speaks half so eloquently or passionately on their behalf as she. She is the only voice they have, and I shan't take her from them, or them from her.)_

"Tell me," he suddenly says, "how is Kiku?"

"Fine."

Arthur sighs in relief.

"Except for his diet," Marie sleepily continues. "He hates it, but Ludwig insists. Says Kiku eats too much salt. It's cute, how close they are."

"And your brother?"

"Be quiet," she mumbles, annoyed, and kicks his shin. "Go back to sleep."

Arthur chuckles. Apparently, the Queen of Spades is not a morning person.

"Tell me," he insists, dipping his head and laying an open-mouthed kiss on her neck.

_"No."_ She pushes his face away and determinedly buries her own in the pillow. "_Sleep."_

"Yes."

With a dramatic sigh, she rolls away from him. "Will's _fine."_

"Are he and Kiku…"

"Are they what?" she asks, rubbing her eyes. "I don't think they've met. Will hates politics."

She huffs out another sigh, and Arthur laughs, his eyes crinkling from his joy.

"What's so funny?" she grouses, squinting at him.

"You're absolutely adorable when you're cross, my love."

"Ugh!" she exclaims, too annoyed with him to even form words. With a great effort she hauls herself up, swings her legs over the side of the bed, and makes to get up.

"Oh, no, you don't," Arthur exclaims, grabbing her wrist and pulling her back down to him.

_"No,"_ she whines. _"Leave me alone."_

"Come here," Arthur murmurs, rolling on top of her and pulling the blanket around them.

He sets about rearranging her limbs, kissing new paths across her body using last night as a guide, and she has no further grumblings for the rest of the morning, only enthusiastically offers him _yes_ and _please_ and _there_ and _again._

* * *

Afterwards — and in a _much_ better mood, if her merciless teasing of his messy hair was any indication — she insisted he bathe with her. Using his magic, they fill up the tub in the washroom and keep the water warm for a good hour.

Their empty stomachs growling, they dress, preparing to finally leave their room.

"Darling," he suddenly says, buttoning his shirt and thinking of poor Yao, "who were we supposed to meet with?"

Marie is sitting at her vanity, fixing her hair. "Ambassadors from Clubs. Prince Ivan is still trying to improve his relations with us."

"Ah. I never did care much for the fellow."

"Me neither, to be honest — but then, I don't think most people do. Not even Alfred, and he got along well with pretty much everyone."

Arthur frowns. He hadn't stopped to consider Alfred's role in this timeline yet.

_Why is Alfred no longer King? Perhaps he was able to return to his home like he wished to…_

"Quite right," he mutters.

As he digs through his chest of drawers, searching for socks and a neckcloth, a sudden headache comes upon him — great spikes of pain tearing through his brain, not unlike a migraine. Arthur closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and supposes the pain brought on and exacerbated by his hunger.

"You know, Will brought that up the other day when we were having lunch together."

"Brought what up?" Arthur asks, standing before the wardrobe mirror and studying himself as he sets about tying his neckcloth.

"The war those two almost started. He was talking about how glad he was that you were able to clean up all the messes Alfred made while he was King. And — " She grimaces. "Well, that's a little harsh, and isn't how _I_ would word it, exactly, but — " She shrugs. "You know how blunt Will can be."

_Alfred and Ivan almost started a war?_

"He was always so proud to teach for the Defense Academy," she continues. "But then — well, he never in his wildest dreams thought he'd ever be made a general, much less _Field Marshal. _It was awfully good of you to do that for him. I know he doesn't express it very often, but — well, he knows he's been very lucky, and he's very thankful."

She rises from her seat and walks over to him, wrapping her arms around his middle.

"So am I," she softly tells him, tilting her head to the side and watching his reflection as he finishes his neckcloth with one final knot. "You and he are the two most important people in the world to me. So — thank you, dear, for taking care of my brother."

"Anything for you, darling," he says after a moment. "And Willem deserved it," he adds, remembering the _real_ Willem, not the broken and grief-stricken man Arthur turned him into. The memory of it makes Arthur loosen the neckcloth around his throat just the slightest bit. "He's talented and intelligent. Exceedingly capable."

"He had some very nice things to say about you, too, and you know how stingy Will can be with his compliments. He said you've done wonderful things for the kingdom since you became King — for _all_ the kingdoms, really."

"If I have, it's only because — " As the pink dusts his cheeks, he drops his gaze to the floor. "Because I've such an exceptional Queen."

She smiles at that, squeezing him tight and burying her face in his back. After laying a kiss between his shoulder blades, she walks back to her vanity, and Arthur searches through the wardrobe for a waistcoat.

_Everything about this timeline is right, _he thinks._ Everyone is alive, everyone is healthy and happy. Marie is alive. I have her and the kingdom. Willem seems to think I am a decent ruler, and a more discerning man I've yet to meet. The people love Marie. And — perhaps — one day — we might welcome Kit's arrival as the Crown Prince._

_So what care I about Alfred?_

The pain hasn't left his head.

"Darling — "

"Hmm?"

Arthur removes two waistcoats, one green and one red, from the wardrobe. "What happened to Alfred? Why is he no longer King?"

"What are you talking about?"

Deciding on the green, Arthur replaces the red waistcoat. "Tell me what happened."

"Arthur — " Marie turns in her seat and looks at him, her eyes hard. "You know what happened and that's not funny. I know you weren't always fond of him, but — don't make jokes about the dead."

The Watch tumbles out of the pocket of the green waistcoat and falls to the floor with a clatter.

"What was that?" Marie asks.

"Nothing," Arthur quickly returns, bending to pick up the Watch and discreetly slip it into his trouser pocket.

He straightens.

_I do not care. I do not care._

His fingers fumble as he tries to unbutton the waistcoat.

"Alfred is _dead?"_ Arthur asks, incredulous and giving up on the waistcoat entirely. He turns toward her. "But — _how_ — and — " Suddenly realizing how inarticulate he must sound, he starts over: "What happened?"

_"No,"_ she emphatically denies, giving him a withering look. "You already know what happened to him. Unless — " She glances at the door before rising and walking over to him. "Has your magic turned on you?" she asks in a low voice.

"I — " He blinks. "Yes, I believe so. Yes. Yes, things are…a tad hazy regarding that subject. Would you tell it to me? Everything? As though you were telling it to someone for the first time."

An uneasy look crosses her face. "But, dear — it's not a good story, and you'll eventually get your memories back, anyway — you did before — "

_"Darling,"_ he begs her, his eyes wild as he takes her hands and leads her to sit on the edge of the bed, kneeling before her. "I have to know. You _must_ tell me."

Sighing, and looking uncomfortable, she stares down at their clasped hands.

"Where do you even start?" she asks herself. "I guess — well. It happened one day when you were visiting me and Kiku in Hearts. Do you remember how Alfred would sometimes go off to Clubs alone to see Ivan?"

Arthur shakes his head. This is news to him.

"It was the _stupidest_ thing he could have possibly done," she spits, "going alone like that, not telling anyone, but he went and did it anyway because he wanted to do something for Spades on his own, to prove to everyone he was capable. That he could be a hero."

_Have you just ever been so desperate for something you'd do almost anything? Anything at all?_

"So he went to Clubs that day, but of course things didn't turn out well — he and Ivan got into an argument, like usual. And then — on the way back — "

"Yes?"

"He — well — he was murdered."

The color drains from Arthur's face. "Murdered?" he whispers.

Still looking down at their hands, Marie sadly nods her head. "His carriage was ambushed by highwaymen. Well — they _think_ they were highwaymen."

"They do not know for sure?"

"There were rumors Ivan sent some of his men after Alfred, but there's no way to know for sure."

She looks up. "Don't you _ever_ go off to Clubs alone," she fiercely orders him. _"Ever._ You hear me? And no matter where you are, I _never_ want you alone in a room full of Clubs. You should have at least five knights with you, just in case. Understand?"

Numbly, he nods.

"Good," she says, visibly relaxing. "And if I find out Yao didn't have any knights with him while he was entertaining those ambassadors — "

She trails off, shaking her head in a threatening manner.

"Were the murderers ever found?"

"No. If they were really and truly just highwaymen, there's no way to know if they were aware Alfred was the King, or if they just thought he was just another noble. But — oh, _Arthur."_ She squeezes her eyes shut. "Arthur, it was _awful._ They could've just robbed him, but they didn't. They _murdered_ him. Him and the coachman. The coachman they only stabbed once, and that was enough, but _Alfred_ — they stabbed him _thirty times."_

She shudders. Arthur covers his mouth with his hand.

"The coachmen they left on the ground, but Alfred they _tied to a tree._ They _tied him to a tree_ and just _left_ him there. What if he was still alive, somehow? Is it bad of me that — "

"That what?"

"That I hope he wasn't alive at that point," she whispers. "Because he would have been bleeding, and _suffering,_ and — "

"No, darling." Arthur rubs her hands between his own. "That's not bad of you."

"It took a week for the search party to find him." She shudders again. "Poor Alfred, to have that happen to him, and then — to just be left there, for an entire week. That poor, _poor_ boy."

"But — " Arthur shakes his head, unable to comprehend it all. "I don't understand. He was always so _strong._ He defeated that dragon all on his own when he was still a boy."

Marie nods. "Nobody knows for sure how many men there were, and they did have the element of surprise. But also, I think — " She removes her hands from his, twisting them in her lap. "I think Alfred must have been so _scared._ To be all alone in a situation like that, with no one's hand to hold, with no one to help him. And he was always so brave and so headstrong, but — the poor boy. I think he must have been so _frightened_ and so _alone_ that he didn't know what to do. Maybe he just felt hopeless."

_You weren't there! You should have been there to tell me what to do._

"There wasn't a single person in the kingdom who didn't attend the funeral. I know you two were never very close, dear, but he really did want to do so much good for everyone, and I think the people saw that. The entire kingdom mourned. Everything was black for the longest time." She squeezes his hand in hers. "And — I never told you, but I was so worried about you after that."

"About _me?"_

"You suddenly had so much thrust upon your shoulders. The Parliament was in hysterics when you became King, and some senators wanted to declare war." She reaches out to brush the hair from his eyes. "But I was so proud of you, too, for the way you stepped up and handled everything after Alfred's death. In someone else's hands things might've just become worse, but you were able to set everything right again. You were able to make the people hopeful again. And, when the mourning period was over…we were finally able to marry."

Arthur gets to his feet. He wanders about the room, as though in a stupor. He lifts a hand to his mouth, drops it. Rests it upon his hip. Brings it back up to hold his forehead.

_The only way I shall ever become king is if something were to happen to Alfred, but that is unlikely as he's so young and healthy and perfect._

"Dear?" Marie watches him pace, restless and uneasy, around the room. "You don't look well at all. You look green." She scoffs and rolls her eyes. "I _told_ you it was bad, you ridiculous man," she mutters. "Come lay down and I'll get you a cool rag."

Arthur goes to stand before the tall window. His head pounding, he recalls the memory he had of his old wedding ring — the plain one Alfred picked out especially for him — spinning on a table.

He knows the man who set it spinning. _That_ man, though not so unscrupulous as to actively plot the boy's death, certainly wished for it and rejoiced at the news of it. _Welcomed_ it. Actually welcomed the news of a helpless boy being murdered — a boy, Kiku once told him, who was known the world over for his good humor, his kindness, his charm. A boy who was, in fact, not so helpless at all, but who nonetheless had been driven to the point of giving up all hope. An innocent in unfathomable pain, and then left to rot.

_That_ man probably did not care how badly the boy suffered, or if his body was ever found. _That_ man's priority was only what he could gain from it all.

He knows that man, just as surely as he knows he is no longer that man.

"I ought to have been there with him," Arthur mutters.

"What?"

"I could have prevented it. I could have _stopped_ it."

"Arthur, _no._ You would have been killed, too."

Arthur shakes his head, his eyes haunted. "My magic would have been enough to save both him and the coachman. I should not have pushed him away — "

_Because I love watching you fail._

" — I should never have treated him as horribly as I did. He was innocent of every supposed crime I ever laid against him. He never deserved my hatred. And he didn't — he certainly didn't deserve to die, nor in such a ghastly manner."

In their original time, Arthur used to see the two sides of himself — the one so full of love and loyalty to a precious few, the other consumed with such raw, blind hatred — and he would wonder which was the real him.

And now, he thinks he finally has his answer. Because perhaps on this quest to find the woman he loves, he found something else entirely — something he never knew he was missing.

Himself.

"Arthur?"

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the Watch. He looks down at it, rubbing his thumb across the glass face.

_Alfred, forgive me. For everything._

_To everyone I've so selfishly hurt — I'm so, so sorry._

He turns to face Marie and, despite how painful it is for him, he meets her eyes — her lovely, genuine eyes, the eyes he has so often found himself lost in. The intelligence behind them, the wit, the love.

"My darling, darling girl," he brokenly whispers, his voice a mere rasp. "I'm so sorry."

She furrows her brows in confusion.

"No man could ever love you as much as I."

"Arthur — I don't understand — "

A tear rolls down his cheek. "I would have loved you until the end of my days, darling — I swear it. Until the stars fell from the sky."

As she glances down at his hand, her eyes widen as she recognizes the Watch for what it is. She took the oath to protect it the day Arthur laid the tiara upon her head. She knows it must never be used by anyone, she knows it's capable of an immense power —

"No!" she shouts, running to him and throwing her arms about his neck. "Whatever you're thinking of doing — _don't,"_ she desperately, frantically begs him. "Please don't, Arthur — Arthur, _please."_

He holds her tightly, and yet not nearly tight enough, crushing her against him as though he might still take some part of her with him, or at least impress her body on his so he'd never forget the way she felt in his arms.

"I only ever wanted us to be together," he whispers, his face crumbling. "I only ever wanted to save you."

"Save me — ?"

"But I see it now so very clearly, darling. We — we cannot be together if there is always such a terrible price to be paid."

She lets out a sob. "Why are you saying this?"

He cradles the back of her head in his hand, and for the last time, tangles his fingers in her soft hair.

"You musn't hate me, darling."

"I wouldn't ever, but — Arthur, _don't._ Please stay. Please, _please…"_

"I've been the cause of so much pain for so many, but — " He swallows. "I'm going to set things right once and for all. For you and for everyone."

"I'm not going to forget," she promises through her tears. "Whatever you're going to do, I'll find you — I swear I'll find you, because I _love you_ and I _belong with you."_

He tries to speak, but finds he can't, his mind clouded by her lavender scent, the lump in his throat so thick and painful. His very soul is being split in twain, and _oh,_ he has so much he wants to say to her, and so little time left to say it —

"I won't forget," she whispers, pulling away to hold his face in her hands. "I'll find you. No matter where or when the Watch takes you, I'll _find you_ and I'll _be with you,_ I swear I will."

Even as their tears mingle, even as every beat of his heart rebels and tells him to stay with her, he clutches the Watch in his hand.

"Change the Fates' design," he orders. "Fix everything I've made so terribly wrong."

_How shall you put the pieces back together, Arthur of Spades?_

Dropping the watch, he clutches her to him.

_"Please."_

.

.

.

I'm so sorry for the delay in getting this chapter posted. And I'm sorry for the quality of this chapter, too. It just feels…rushed and sloppy. This penultimate chapter was always, from the very first drafts, just going to be Arthur and Bel together, but when I sat down to write it out, I realized how limiting that idea actually was.

It's only hinted at, but this timeline breaks off from the original with Alfred's death shortly before Arthur made Ned his bodyguard. Thus, Ned and Kiku never met, and Hearts is better off because their king and queen are able to grow closer, and poor Ned doesn't know any better because he's off living a fulfilling life kicking ass as the commander of the Spades armies. It really would've been a perfect timeline, except whoops character development.

So how will it all finally end? Only one more chapter! Take care and I'll see you soon.


	8. the star

**Bed of Nails**

.

_viii. the star_

.

The Queen of Spades sits in his private rooms, arranging the Tarot cards on the table before him.

He sighs heavily as he studies his cards — another bad hand. Absently, he shuffles the rest of the deck in his hands.

_It's all the same as that day, _Arthur suddenly thinks. _It's the same as the day I first met her. I know what's going to happen. Yao is going to knock —_

There's a knock at the door. It startles him, and the deck slips from his fingers and flutters to the floor.

_She and Kiku have arrived —_

"Your Majesty," his Jack announces, "the Queen and the Six of Hearts are here."

As Arthur bends to gather the cards off the rug, one in particular catches his eye. The Lovers — one of his birth cards — is the only one to have landed face up in the pile.

He stares at the card. He knows a choice is being demanded of him.

Yao coughs politely. "Shall I show them in?"

"No."

Yao blinks. "No?"

"I've no wish to see either of them — now, or ever again." Arthur rises from his seat. "You tell those two Hearts if they ever dare step foot in our kingdom again, I shall have both their heads on a silver platter."

"You want me to tell them _what?"_

"I wish you to tell them, in no uncertain terms, that the Queen of Spades breaks off any and all connection with them henceforth. The Queen of Hearts and his Six — "

_(I want to wake up next to you and laugh at your messy hair, because I bet it looks awful in the mornings, doesn't it?)_

" — they are barred from ever stepping foot into this kingdom again. Association with any of our citizenry, for any reason, is to be absolutely prohibited. Not even so much as a letter from either of them is to be allowed through our borders — and if a letter from one of them _should _slip through, I shall personally see to it that the offender's hands are rendered useless for the rest of their miserable lives."

"Your Majesty, I ask you to reconsider," Yao beseeches, his voice quivering. "We share a border with the Hearts — they were our allies during the Great War — think of the political implications of your actions — "

Arthur waves a hand. "There's no need to be alarmed. I am not completely severing our ties with their kingdom as a whole — nothing so dramatic or ludicrous as that. King Ludwig and his Jack may continue to visit without issue, and should the Queen of Hearts or his bodyguard be replaced, these rules need not apply to their successors. It is only — "

_(Did you know that we first met at a dance?)_

" — it is only that I cannot _stand the sight_ of Queen Kiku, and to be in the company of his Six would be insupportable."

"But — " Yao shakes his head, still unable to make any sense of this turn of events. "You are _friends_ with the Queen — you two are so close — "

"That time has passed. I once was friends with him, but no longer."

"I am sorry, but — " Yao, who had until then looked to Arthur as though he were unraveling at the seams, gathers himself up and defiantly narrows his eyes at his Queen. "No. I am _not_ sorry. I still do not understand, and I demand to know your reasoning behind this. Even if you two have quarreled, that is simply no reason to — "

_"Damn it, Yao!"_ Arthur furiously shouts, grabbing a figurine off the table and hurling it across the room. "I cannot get on _at all_ with you standing there, blubbering away with that stupid look on your face! Stop questioning me and do as I say _immediately_ or I shall expel you from this kingdom without a moment's hesitation as well. Don't think I fucking won't, and don't think I'll regret it."

Yao's face goes as red as Arthur's, his breathing just as uneven. Arthur, thoroughly shamed, drops his eyes to the floor.

"Forgive me," he sighs, falling back into his chair. "I did not mean it." He holds his face in his hands. "Yao, I'm sorry — I did not mean it. Truly."

Removing his hands, Arthur's eyes fall upon the Lovers card. He picks it up with trembling fingers.

_(You know I love you, don't you? Because I do. I love you forever.)_

"However odd it may seem, please trust that I did not arrive at this decision lightly," he says. "Quite the opposite. But I — I know it shall be for the best, for everyone. I know it."

And then, a fervently whispered prayer: "It _has_ to be."

* * *

Arthur watches from his window as Yao sees the Queen of Hearts and his Six off.

Marie helps Kiku into their carriage, but with one foot upon the folding steps, she hesitates. Instead of climbing in after him, she whirls around and strides up to Yao.

"You tell that selfish man," she fearlessly shouts, her voice a clear, crisp slap across the face, "that I hope I am never forced to be in the same room with him, because I would not have a _single_ kind word to say to him."

"Lady Six — "

"I don't know who he thinks he is to slight us in such a fashion! And his _best friend,_ no less! It's offensive, and childish, and it's — did he ever stop to consider that maybe my only living family member is in Spades? It's _barbaric _of him."

Yao opens and closes his mouth, grasping for the right words to calm the Six, to somehow assuage the situation.

"But after all is said and done," she sniffs, "I think Kiku and I are better off without him, so good riddance to the Queen of Spades."

Walking back to the waiting carriage, she nimbly leaps inside and slams the door shut behind her.

Tears blur Arthur's vision as he watches their carriage drive off.

_Please forgive me, _he thinks, crumpling the Lovers card in his fist_. Someday, somewhere. Please._

* * *

The Queen of Spades retires to his bedroom and requests not to be disturbed.

The food Yao brings him goes uneaten, the questions he asks go unanswered. Still, as the days pass, Arthur refusing to leave his room, Yao remains undeterred, for he barely recognizes his Queen.

It's been decades since Arthur was the squirming babe Yao held in his arms, and traces of the boy he once tucked into bed every night have vanished. But even the harsh lines of the angry young man he became, the young man Yao would still do anything for, are gone. This vacant stranger before him is burdened, yoked with an invisible, abject weight, one so heavy he might never pull himself up again.

And for three torturous weeks, he doesn't.

* * *

"Have you heard? Queen Arthur is sick."

"Is he, now?"

"Aye."

"Don't surprise me one bit, it don't, what wiv all that _bellyachin'_ I hear he does…"

"No, this is serious. _Really_ serious. I overheard some of the healers in the village speaking of it."

"And just what would any-a those quacks happen know 'bout it?"

"That's just it — he's so terribly ill that the Jack has requested help from _every_ practicing healer in the kingdom."

_"Ah,_ go on wiv ye."

"Indeed, I am in earnest! The Jack found him in bed one morning pale as a ghost, drenched in sweat and shivering so badly he very nearly caused an earthquake. They cannot figure out why he became so ill, as he was always healthy before. All they know is it's some sort of fever, but it's one unlike any the healers have seen before."

* * *

"How fares the Queen?"

"Even worse, if you can believe it."

"Oh,_ no…"_

"They just can't break the fever. 'Parently, it's resistant to everything that's worked on other people before. Ugh, I can't imagine tossin' and turnin' with fever for two weeks straight."

"Nor I…"

* * *

"Any news?"

"The fever still refuses to break. He can't keep anything down and he's totally unresponsive when he's not hallucinating and calling out some woman's name. It's so bad that — "

"That what?"

"Now, don't go spreadin' this around, you hear? But…it's so bad that Marlow went ahead and ordered a large amount of black fabric from his supplier."

_"…oh._ The Fates rest his soul, then."

"I don't know if they will. All this makes me wonder what he did to piss them off so bad, you know?"

* * *

In a field near the forested border between Spades and Hearts, some of the young blades from Spades' Defense Academy carefully wade in the stream, attempting to catch fish with their bare hands. Others climb trees; chase one another; practice techniques Master de Vries has shown them.

"Is it _really_ alright for you to bring your students all the way out here?" Marie asks, sitting a blanket next to her brother.

"Kids like field trips."

"After what's happened, I don't know how it would look if somebody found out students from the Spades Defense Academy had come into Hearts territory without any warning prior…"

Willem snorts dismissively. "These're first years. They're not a threat to Hearts."

"So what if a dragon wanders by?"

He shrugs. "If they've paid attention in class, they'll be fine."

It's the only way he's able to see his sister now, taking his young blades out to adventure in borderlands between the two kingdoms. Though inconvenient, it's a gray area within the Queen of Spades' bizarre, unwarranted decree.

_(I'll kill the bastard,_ he'd snarled when his sister told him, her and Kiku's driver stopping at the Academy before taking them back to Hearts — and out of Spades — forever. _He can't separate us, I won't let him, I'll snap the shitbag's neck,_ and though Marie was still upset herself, she was at least able to talk her brother out of doing anything rash. _I know they're grooming you to be Headmaster one day, so don't do anything rash and ruin it just for my sake, okay? We'll figure something out.)_

"All that asshole Queen's fault, anyway," Willem darkly mutters.

"Is his illness really as bad as people are saying?"

"Here's hoping."

"Poor Kiku," Marie sighs, her heart uneasy for him. "We've been hearing rumors about it in Hearts and he's worried. He wants to visit."

_Surely this banishment is just a silly misunderstanding,_ she thinks. _If Queen Arthur makes it through his illness, I'm sure he'll write to Kiku and apologize. There must be a good explanation._

"He never talks about it, but I know he misses his friend. For Kiku's sake, at least, I hope the Queen gets better soon."

* * *

It was a morning just like any other in Spades when Arthur finally awoke and found his mind once again his own — no fanfare, no banners triumphantly unfurled, no dancing in the streets. Only the insufferable sound of scratching filled his room.

"What," he croaks, not opening his eyes, "is that infernal racket?"

Frenzied shuffling, a book snapping shut, a chair scraping harshly against the floor.

Then: "Arthur? Is it you? Are you finally okay? Say something else! Can you hear me? Are you okay? Arthur?"

Arthur cracks his raw, stinging eyes open and finds Alfred barely containing himself in a chair beside his bed. He glances around his room and takes it in as though through a glass, darkly. In addition to a general feeling of weakness, there's a strange, foreign sort of soreness burrowed within his limbs, the sensation of pain everywhere and nowhere all at once.

"Must you _gawk_ so?" Arthur irritably asks, raising a hand to gingerly rub at his eyes.

"Oh — !" Alfred tears his eyes away from Arthur. "Sorry. It's just — you look like you're finally kinda back to normal and after so long — well, it's just really good to see you, to hear your voice." More to himself than to Arthur: _"So, so_ good."

"What are you doing here?" Arthur asks, still rubbing his eyes. "Where is Yao?"

"Oh. Yeah. Yao. Of course you'd want him." Alfred huffs out a humorless little laugh, one which doesn't reach his eyes. "It sucks that the first person you see when you finally wake up is me, huh? You stay right there and I'll go get him for you."

"No!" Arthur pulls his hand away from his eyes and blinks rapidly, finally giving Alfred his full attention. "No. I did not mean anything by it. I _was_ surprised by your presence, but you need not leave."

He shifts on the bed, grunting with effort as he makes to sit up. Alfred offers his help, shoving pillows behind him, and Arthur doesn't object, only sighs as he settles against them.

"Yao's takin' a nap," Alfred explains, pouring Arthur a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table.

Arthur scoffs. "That man never sleeps."

"Well, he was pretty wore out because he was so worried about you that he barely left your side."

Arthur takes the glass Alfred offers him and, only now realizing how ravenously thirsty he is, gulps down the entire glass. Feeling the chill of the water slink and wind its way down his windpipe and pool in his stomach, Arthur immediately wishes he hadn't, and takes a deep breath to quell the subsequent wave of nausea.

Alfred, perched on the edge of the chair, hands clasped and knee bouncing, carefully watches him.

"I have been ill, it seems," Arthur eventually says, awkwardly twisting the empty glass in his hands. "And for some time."

"Yeah."

"For how long?"

"Three weeks."

No wonder he feels like a stranger in his own body, then. Like an incorporeal being, caged and banging gauzy fists against confines its aimless wanderlust does not understand.

Alfred nods. "We were all really worried."

"Even you?" Arthur asks before he can stop himself.

"Well — of _course,_ me too!" Alfred cries. "Nobody knew if you'd make it, and it was _awful_ because none of us could help you. All we could do was just sit around and watch. Nothin' we did made it any better."

Alfred's eyes nearly bug out of his head. "Oh, _crap_ — we didn't accidentally hurt you while we were trying to help you, did we? Do you remember anything?"

"No. Only some very brief moments of lucidity, but upon the whole, no."

Alfred sighs. "That's good to hear. None of the healers were very much help. They said you had a fever like they ain't never seen before. They even — "

His knee stills.

"Yes?"

"They even took your measurements and started constructing a coffin for you."

"…oh."

"Yeah…"

"Of course."

In the awkward silence, Arthur thinks to look himself over and sees the length of his arms covered with bandages.

"The bloody hell is all _this?" _he asks, picking at them.

Alfred grimaces, equal parts apologetic and disgusted. "They bled you. And a couplah times they used leeches."

"How…_medieval_ of them."

"The healers were gettin' kinda desperate."

Arthur's expression turns ashen, distant. He lays back down on the bed, turning away from Alfred and curling in on himself beneath the covers.

"They should have left me to rot," he mutters.

Alfred helplessly runs a hand through his hair, unsure how to respond to that.

* * *

Yao scolds Arthur severely when he next sees him. Arthur expects no less — in truth, he would be put out if Yao did _not_ scold him.

"You are a _brat,"_ Yao huffs, sitting on the edge of the bed and helping Arthur eat his broth. "I do not know_ why_ or _how_ I put up with you."

"No one else would put up with me," Arthur says. Though his voice is lazy, tired, Yao notes his eyes are clear and bright.

"You do not pay me nearly enough, nor what I am actually worth. I am worth my weight in _gold,_ I'll have you know."

"It's fortunate for the royal treasury, then, that you are so thin."

Arthur, his belly full for the first time in weeks and his body still so profoundly exhausted, slinks down against his pillows after he's finished his supper.

"Do not _ever_ do that to me again," Yao demands as he brings the duvet up around Arthur's shoulders. "Because of you and your lifetime of antics, my nerves are not what they once were."

"I won't," Arthur sighs, his eyelids fluttering shut.

"Not even to spite me?"

"Not even to spite you."

* * *

A scratching noise identical to the one which first awoke him disturbs Arthur another morning. He opens his eyes to find Alfred sitting before the open window, intently focused on a bird happily pecking away at the biscuit placed on the ledge. Alfred, hunched over the small sketchbook resting on his knee, periodically glances up to look at the bird, his pencil flitting across the page.

"You draw?" Arthur asks, watching him.

Alfred stills his nub of a pencil. "Um, yeah, actually. It's nothin' special, though — just little doodles."

"Bring that here. Let me see."

Alfred drags his chair closer to the bed and offers Arthur the sketchbook — hesitant, like a nervous student awaiting his final marks.

"These are good," Arthur says, flipping through the pages, the hasty drawings of birds, lizards, frogs, squirrels. "I never knew you had such talent, or were so fond of animals."

"Nah," Alfred drawls, "not talent, not really. It's just something I used to do back home on the farm. Once all my chores were done I never really had much else to do, so I'd just sit and draw the animals. I like to do it now when I can 'cause it reminds me of home."

Arthur hands him back the book. "Don't let me keep you."

Alfred returns to his position by the window. Arthur stares at the ceiling, listening to the bird's chirping, its feet tapping against the ledge as it hops about.

"Alfred."

_Scratch scratch scratch, _scratching away. "Yeah?"

"Has Yao ever told you of the time I demanded to keep a snake in the castle as a pet?"

* * *

"Why on earth are you carrying all those boxes?" Arthur asks Alfred one day. "What are you planning to do with them?"

"Dude, these aren't _boxes _— they're games! Since they still don't want you leavin' your bed for a while, I figured I'd bring the fun to you."

"Games?"

Alfred nods excitedly.

"Games…in _boxes."_

Again, Alfred nods.

"What sort of games come within a box?"

"Have you — dude, have you_ never played a board game_ before?"

Arthur shakes his head.

"Are you _kidding me?"_ Alfred exclaims, and then, at the look Arthur gives him: "Yeah, yeah, I know. You don't kid. But — _oh, man._ You are gonna have _so_ much fun with these, I promise. Let's play this one first. What color piece do you want?"

* * *

Some days later, Alfred barrels into Arthur's room, cradling a long stack of books against his chest. He unceremoniously dumps them onto Arthur's bed, causing tea to slosh over the sides of Arthur's teacup.

After dusting off his hands, Alfred proudly rests them on his hips. "You're welcome."

_"Alfred,"_ Arthur snaps, setting his dripping teacup aside and dabbing at the stain on his duvet with a napkin, "what the _bloody hell_ do you think you're doing?"

"Well, I was thinkin' — "

_"No..."_

"I was thinkin', _smartass,_ that since you're a bookworm, you're probably really missing your books." He shrugs. "I dunno, I was never really into books myself, not knowin' how to read and all, but I've known other bookworms, and they always said it felt good to know their books were close by, so — here you go!" Alfred spreads his hands in the air, makes a grand gesture of it. "Voila! _Books."_

Arthur runs the tips of his fingers along the covers of the books. The sight of them, their smell, the dips of the letters stamped along the spines. Alfred was right — he's missed his books terribly, missed the weight of them in his hands, his fingers itching to turn their pages.

"The agricultural significance of snails?" he reads, picking up a book and glancing at its cover, and then another's: "The chemical compounds in paint? The speech patterns of mermaids? Alfred — from which shelf in my library did you happen to procure this…_unique_ assortment of reading material?"

"Um, I just picked up whatever. Didn't really have a plan. Books are books, right?"

"You dolt," Arthur says, happier and more grateful than he can possibly express. _"Idiot."_

* * *

"You are _cheating!"_

"How am _I_ cheating?! _You're_ the cheater, _cheater!"_

"You peeked at the cards whilst I wasn't looking."

"What_ev_er! That's _bullcrap!_ They're in the little envelope and it's sealed closed! If I did peek, it would've been ripped open."

"How _else_ would you have known it was Doctor Cid in the wine cellar with the chicken knife?"

"I'm just _that good,_ dude, get over it."

"Crook!"

"Crybaby!"

"I won't stand for this. Another round!"

"But we've been playing all night and I'm kinda tired…"

"Damn it, git. _Another round."_

"Hey, you don't have to throw the dice at me, jerkface!"

* * *

The Watch — not on Arthur's person when he found himself back in the original time — sits upon the altar in the Shrine, beguiling as ever in its aloof regalness.

Visiting the Shrine was the first thing Arthur did once he'd regained enough strength to leave his bed. Everyone assumes it's to thank the benevolent Fates for his recovery, but Arthur remains within the Shrine for some time, trying to make peace with the object. Making peace with his final decision, however, will be a longer time coming, if at all.

To say it wasn't an easy decision would be to insult him.

He no longer hears the wailing of his ancestor's ghost, and he finds some comfort in that. It makes him think his decision might have finally been the right one.

For the first time in his life, it was a selfless one.

* * *

"I miss her," Arthur whispers in the dark of the night, dreaming of her with wet eyes and a heavy heart, empty but for memories of her. "I need her. I don't want to go the rest of my life without her. I_ can't."_

And then the ever-loyal Yao was there, rubbing circles on Arthur's back and soothing him back to sleep.

"You were meant for great things, Arthur of Spades," he gently confides. "The Fates spared you because they have a plan for you. You need only to endure and follow it."

* * *

Queens are only expected to provide heirs, take up a few pet causes, and cement alliances through marriage, so when Arthur throws open the doors to the Parliament's Cincinnatus Chamber and strolls through the middle aisle to take a seat next to Alfred, the senators stare, speechless and visibly uncomfortable.

_"What are you doing?"_ Alfred franticly whispers, his eyes wide — absurdly so, Arthur thinks.

"Why — " Arthur innocently looks around him. "Sitting in on a session of Parliament, of course. What else would one do inside Parliament? Bake a cake?"

"No, I just meant — is that even allowed? Queens aren't supposed to — "

"Whether it is allowed or not, I shall do it regardless, for who in their right mind would deny me anything? And it is not as though I am demanding the senators strip, douse themselves with honey, and run through the town square, now, is it?"

He glances around the chamber.

"Though _that can be arranged,"_ he calls out, the warning in his voice echoing ominously within the still-silent chamber. The senators clear their throats, shuffle their papers, and pick up their debate where it left off.

"That _would_ be kind of awesome," Alfred says, chuckling. "But — for real, though. What are you doing in here?"

"Listen, Alfred." Arthur draws his chair closer to Alfred's and leans in to whisper to him. "I believe it's high time we put all this folly behind us. Or, rather, that _I_ put all _my_ folly behind us."

Alfred blinks at him.

"Now, _see here — "_ Arthur testily sighs, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "I'm no good with apologies, Alfred, but any kingdom is only as good as the relationship between its King and Queen. And I — much as I enjoy it, I ought not to go on berating you so."

"Oh…"

"And it would be foolish of me to expect my kingdom to flourish if I, the only person who _does_ know how to run things properly, keep refusing to teach you. All this isn't for you, mind — it's simply I've no wish to go down in history as a villain. So — "

He holds his hand out between them. Alfred looks it over.

"What's with the change of heart all of a sudden?" he asks, genuinely curious, no hint of resentment or suspicion in his tone.

_(Your life does have meaning, Arthur, and you are still needed, just — in a different way now. I think Alfred needs you very much.)_

Arthur's chest tightens.

He'd wondered if his illness was a punishment from the Fates, or perhaps a warning — but the more he thinks on it, the more he's come to believe it was actually a test. He was in his parents' secret room when he realized, with startling self-transparency, that he failed his first test in spectacular fashion. At the first testing of his character he proved himself to be weak, callous, and utterly wanting — not fit in the least for the one thing he so coveted. He was weighed on the scales, and his faults were too heavy for the kingdom to bear.

And now, at this second testing of his character, he refuses to let that fateful, final decision he made — for her, and for everyone — be in vain.

"I have put off my responsibilities to my kingdom for far too long," he quietly explains. "Though I may not be King, I still have a duty to protect my ancestral homeland and my people. And — despite the fact you cheat at games — I realize now, Alfred, how wrong I was about you before. About you, and about everything. Come, man, take my hand. Spades shall thrive only if we two work together."

Alfred doesn't hesitate to reach out and grip Arthur's hand.

"Splendid._"_ Releasing Alfred's hand, Arthur straightens in his seat. He rests his forearms against the table before him and laces his fingers together, suddenly all business. _"Now then._ Do you see that man sitting in the corner there? That is Lord Hamilton, and he only ever votes in opposition to Lady Blanche — whom, if you'll be so good as to look to your left, you will see adjusting her wig…"

* * *

No one is exactly sure how, but King Ludwig of Hearts and the Joker of the East are related.

The details are fuzzy at best and sordid at worst. Ludwig never speaks of the Joker or of their supposed connection to one another, never bothers to dignify any of the rumors with a response. The Joker, however, will gamely flash his teeth, eager to talk to anyone who's curious enough to ask.

His story changes from week to week. Previously he's said they were brothers separated at birth, one raised by a family of wealth and taste, the other pawned off onto a family of staggeringly ill repute ("And I come from the good family, so you losers _chew on that_ for a while!"). Once he claimed he was the Devil of King Lutz's Right Shoulder, though he's currently on leave to do a little reconnaissance in order to find his missing counterpart, the Angel of the Left Shoulder. ("She has a great ass," he says.)

Whatever they may or may not be to each other, there is no doubting King Ludwig is honorable, generous, and respectable. The Joker of the East — crass, conniving, deceitful — couldn't be more his opposite.

And it's those very disreputable qualities which convince Arthur he can trust the Joker.

* * *

"Ah, _Queen Arthur!"_ the Joker airily exclaims, a mockery of Francis' refined courtliness, as he's shown into Arthur's library. "Tales of your beauty have traveled far and wide!"

The hood concealing his face does nothing to hide his sharp grin. "Far away from the _truth,_ that is."

Arthur's smile is tight. _"Charming."_

Yao — standing in the doorway with his nose turned up, glaring disapprovingly at the Joker's back — clears his throat. With a slight nod of his head, Arthur dismisses him.

The Joker shrugs out of the drab cloak he'd been forced to wear so as to conceal his identity, carelessly letting it pool around his ankles and not sparing it another thought. He makes a show of stretching, moaning loudly as he twists and turns, various bones within his body cracking. He leisurely strolls about the room, inspecting it.

"So," he says, coming to stand before Arthur, as expectant as a teenager and twice as unimpressed. "What can a humble Joker do for you today, Yer Majesty?"

"There is someone I want you to keep an eye on for me."

"Bor-_ing."_ The Joker grabs a book off the nearby table and leafs through it before disinterestedly tossing away. "I already keep an eye on everybody all the time, anyway. Including you."

Flopping onto Arthur's plush sofa, he rests his hands behind his head and carelessly drops his muddy shoes upon the armrest.

All wolf and keenly aware of it, he grins up at Arthur. "I guess Queens don't have to follow the same rules as everybody else around here, huh?"

"What _are_ you talking of."

"I can never remember — is the correct term of address _sorcerer_ or _wizard?"_

"I've no idea what you are referring to."

"I bet you do."

Arthur's eyes flash. "No one would believe you."

"Oh, yeah?" the Joker asks, amused. "Then why are you shakin' in yer fancy boots?"

Honestly, it's moments like these the Joker lives for. It's not always an easy life, this sneaking about and being a general nobody, but the thing about digging up dirt on everyone means that you're not afraid of anything. Call it _being alive,_ like you were gonna put it in a holiday brochure. _It's the only way to live._

"I no longer practice magic."

"Doesn't mean you didn't before."

"You've no proof I ever did."

_"Pfft,_ public outrage don't need proof, Fancypants — just rumors, which I happen to be an expert on. I can spread 'em quicker than a whore. Lucky for me, this pretty mouth of mine was meant for greater things than suckin' dick."

Then Arthur does something that takes the normally unflappable Joker off guard: He throws his head back and laughs. For as much as the Joker thought he held the advantage in this cute little rendezvous of theirs, maybe things are actually more even than they first appeared.

Sobering, Arthur walks to his desk and removes a bulky velvet bag from one of the drawers. Coming back to the sofa, he casually drops the bag onto the Joker's chest, causing him to wheeze and his eyes to water.

"If you keep an eye on a specific person for me, you shall be handsomely rewarded."

The Joker opens the bag and dips his hand into the generous mound of coins, cool to the touch but already burning a hole in his pockets.

"How handsomely?" he asks, holding up a coin and watching, mesmerized, as it glints in the sunlight. "Prince Charming handsome, or I-just-had-my-beer-goggles-on handsome?"

"A bag like that for each time you report your findings back to me."

"Deal," the Joker immediately agrees, sitting up and rubbing his calloused hands together. "Who're we talkin' 'bout watchin', Yer Queenship?"

"The Six of Hearts. The Queen's bodyguard."

"Aww, how cute." The Joker grins. "Are you sweet on her, Fancypants?"

Arthur's fist flies out and connects with the Joker's nose, the force of it flinging the Joker's head over the back of the sofa. He shakes his hand out and wonders if he's broken the Joker's nose or neck. He _would_ hope for the latter, except there's a job which needs doing. Under the circumstances, he'll accept the former.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Queenie," the Joker says, bringing a hand up to hold his bleeding nose, "but _what the flyin' fuck?! _I think you broke my nose!"

"Then it's a good thing I only wish you to keep an _eye_ on her, and not _smell_ her, _isn't it,_ prat?"

The Joker hisses and squeezes his eyes shut. "You got a rag or anything you can lend me?"

"Use the sofa. You've already ruined it with your muddy shoes."

The Joker holds the hem of his shirt to his nose and mutters a stream of obscenities.

"You are to watch the girl from a distance," Arthur explains. "You are never to interact with her. You are never to reveal yourself or make yourself otherwise known to her or any companions she may have with her. And you are most certainly _never_ to let slip that it was I who hired you."

"Please, oh worshipful one," the Joker graciously — albeit nasally — entreats him, waving a hand in the air. _"Tell me more."_

"I've no wish to know the mundane details of her life. I do not care what she eats for breakfast and I've no interest in knowing what time she retires for bed."

The Joker swallows, his tongue slickly falling away from the roof of his mouth. "That's what most people ask me to find out. So what _do_ you wanna know about her, then?"

"I just — "

_(And what do you want, my love?_

_Just…you. Something real, with you.)_

"I want to know she's happy."

The Joker lolls his head forward. He stares at Arthur, _squints_ at him in his befuddlement, and, with his bird's nest of hair, he looks as though he's just awoken from a nap.

"Have I made myself clear?"

Of all the things people have come to him for, no one's ever asked the Joker to check up on someone's happiness before. He doesn't really know what's going on — Fancypants here turned out to be nothing like he was expecting. But then, he kinda likes it.

And he _does_ know how much coinage is in that pretty velvet bag — ten coins across times ten coins down, give or a take a few years of never paying much attention in school — equals a _shit ton_ of whatever the fuck he feels like buying for himself. (Not stealing — not anymore. Stealing's for unemployed punks. And business is boomin'.)

He gives Arthur a thumbs-up. "Clear as crystal, Yer Majesticalness."

* * *

It's a rather quiet afternoon in the forest, Willem's students eating their lunches and dozing in the shade.

"You look sad," he says, looking his sister over. "You alright?"

She purses her lips, furrowing her brow in thought.

"No, actually," she eventually says. "I don't think I am."

"What's wrong?"

"It's — "

It doesn't even creep up on her and catch her unawares, this constant feeling feel she has. It just gnaws and churns and festers, never lessening and never vanishing. It's the feeling something's been stolen from her. Something that used to belong to her, that was once _part_ of her.

"It's hard to explain."

"Try."

She shakes her head.

"Anything new?" Willem asks.

"No, not really. Kiku doesn't travel much for pleasure these days, only goes where he's needed. I spend a lot of time with Feli, actually. I got to meet his brother the other day and he's not nearly as bad as everyone warned me about. But other than that — " She shrugs. "What's new with you?"

"Nothin'. Just makin' sure my dumbass kids don't kill themselves."

Marie looks down at her sandwich, untouched save for two bites. Her appetite suddenly gone, she feels nauseous at the thought of finishing it.

(She feels old.)

"Do you want the rest of this?" she asks her brother, holding it out to him.

Willem shakes his head, and they continue watching the students.

* * *

"Say, Art? You okay?"

Whenever Alfred can't find Arthur in the castle, he knows he need only look in the garden for him, though he can't figure out why Arthur spends so much time alone there (at the table near the tulips and the chrysanthemums) if it only ends up making him sad.

"Art?"

"Oh," Arthur says after a moment, his voice as empty as his eyes. "Hullo, Alfred."

"You alright?"

"I'll be fine."

"You looked like you were pretty far away."

_(I won't forget. I'll find you.)_

"I believe I was."

"My Granny used to do that — space out sometimes. She did it a lot after Gramps passed away, and she never really got over — "

"Did you need something?" Arthur asks, setting his teacup down with a clatter.

"Oh — yeah! I wanted to show you this." Alfred hands him a letter. "Looks like Prince Ivan and his fiancé are finally getting married. I really, _really_ don't want to go to the wedding, but I guess we kind of have to, huh? Reputation and all that."

Arthur nods.

"But," Alfred continues, "I was thinking…well, since Princess Erzébet is from Hearts, all the other Hearts will be there at the wedding, won't they?"

"That is a logical assumption, yes."

"Well — is everything gonna be okay? I mean, what if you come across Queen Kiku or his bodyguard?"

"You needn't worry, Alfred. I give you my word I shall be on my best behavior at the wedding."

"And — well — " He shuffles awkward on his feet. "I don't wanna argue, but I _did_ want to ask. Why did you ban the two of them from coming here? Is there something going on?"

Arthur opens his mouth, but no words come.

"I cannot tell you that," he eventually says. "But I would ask that you trust me on this, that I have an excellent reason for wanting to keep them as far away from me as possible."

Alfred shrugs. "Alright."

Arthur rises from his seat and begins walking down the path leading back inside the castle.

"Oh," he says, turning. "And Alfred?"

"Yeah?"

"I shall watch myself around the Hearts, but I must insist that _you_ watch yourself around the Clubs."

Raising a hand to the back of his neck, Alfred laughs nervously, guilty eyes darting all over the garden. "Whaddaya mean?"

"I mean I know about your secret trips to Clubs."

"Oh…yeah. _That."_

"Do not ever travel there alone again. Always take me or someone else along with you. Neither you nor I nor anyone else from Spades is to ever go unguarded around them, whether it be at a wedding or afternoon tea. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, I gotcha…"

* * *

Arthur sits in his study, looking over his letters from the week.

The people of Spades have always been dedicated to their Queen, though perhaps in the beginning it was more out of respect for his rank and title than the man himself. But he has, quite suddenly — to his great astonishment and immense pleasure — found himself the recipient of their _affection._

It all began during a session of Parliament wherein he argued for an amendment to the labor laws, one which would allow seamstresses to work the hours of _their_ choosing and in an environment which would not impair their eyesight. (Some say the amendment only passed because Queen Arthur is so preposterously stubborn, so much so as to be considered _unreasonable_ at times.)

But the people soon realized that if their Queen would argue until he was red in the face about seamstress' hours, of all things — well, what _wouldn't_ he argue for until it was passed? And so: Each week his subjects send him scores of letters, beseeching him to take up their causes, to be a voice for the voiceless.

The only sound in the room today, as he looks over a letter written on behalf of a young, illiterate chimney sweep (that shall be his next project, he immediately decides — sweeping education reforms), is the sound of his pen scratching against paper as he scribbles notes to himself. Every so often he reaches for the bowl of strawberries sitting on his desk, freshly picked from the patch he planted in his garden last spring.

"I know you're there, Joker," he calls out, not looking up from his notes. "Might as well come in and have a cup of tea."

"Well, _shit,"_ the Joker barks, tumbling in through the window. "How'd you know I was there, Boss?"

"You breathe too loud."

"Very funny."

The Joker sidles up to Arthur and looks over his shoulder.

"What is it this week?"

"An eight-year-old chimney sweep cannot sleep at night for hacking up soot." Arthur groans and rubs his tired eyes. "He's _eight."_

"I can't fuckin' stand kids, but even I'll agree that's pretty harsh."

Making his way over to the tea tray, the Joker begins making himself a cup of tea.

"Well?" Arthur asks. "What news."

"So — there's this kid, right? The brother of the Jack of Hearts. _All_ over her."

Arthur's pen tears through the paper.

_"Is_ he."

"Yep. She hangs out with him a lot. They hold hands, sometimes."

"Is he — is he good to her? Does he treat her the way she deserves?"

The Joker dumps ten spoonfuls of sugar into his cup and shrugs. "That kid follows her around like a damn puppy — it's kinda pathetic, actually. Picked a fight with a guy twice his size because he thought he was lookin' at her wrong. _This kid — "_ He chuckles and shakes his head. "He's a real piece of work, this one. Loses his temper at the drop of a hat but he never, ever speaks to _her_ in anything 'cept a calm, regular voice. Goes all starry-eyed and shit whenever she says something. She's got him wrapped around her finger, but she seems like too nice a lady to ever really take advantage of him."

"Does he make her happy?"

The Joker grabs a fistful of biscuits and, settling into a chair, props his feet up on Arthur's desk.

He knows he's good at what he does, but not good enough, apparently, for he still hasn't been able to figure out what the Queen of Spades' connection to the Six of Hearts might be. All he knows is that sometimes the Boss gets this look on his face — like he has now, and — well —_ motherfuck._ Spying is supposed to be fun. It always was before.

"Aw, come on, Boss — don't look so down. She smiles and laughs at his jokes, if that's what you mean."

* * *

The Six of Hearts often wonders what's wrong with her.

She was already living a comfortable life, and now she's met a boy who treats her like a princess, or at least tries to the best of his ability to treat her like one. He scrimps and saves to buy her small tokens of his affection. She is the standard he measures all other women by, albeit sometimes unfairly. He's never refused her anything, nor, she's convinced, would he ever.

All this, and yet —

* * *

For most of his adult life, Willem has never had to worry about his spirited, independent little sister — but just because he doesn't _need_ to doesn't mean he never does.

"How long you been feelin' like this?" he asks her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

"It's hard to pinpoint exactly when, but I think, if I had to put a date on it, it might have been the day that _awful _Queen of Spades rejected us."

_"Forget him,"_ Willem grumbles. "He's a shit."

(Two years from now, Willem — unable to resign himself to a life of training soldiers sworn to protect the man who insulted his sister — will step down from his position at the Defense Academy and move back to his hometown. Like his mother before him, he'll open a flower shop.

He'll meet the Queen of Hearts one day. Kiku will accompany Marie to her brother's shop one afternoon, but being highly allergic to the more exotic of the flowers, he will never step foot inside the shop again.)

"It's not him, really," Marie says, twisting her hands in her lap. "It's just — there's a piece of me missing and I've tried calling it back, I've tried searching for it, but — it's like it's vanished. Or like it — like it never existed at all, but I'm still stuck looking for it, and I'll be stuck looking for it forever. And that's a really scary thought."

Willem considers. He knows she's always been insecure about it, but —

"You think it's that card?" he cautiously asks.

In response, she only draws her knees up and rests her head against them.

* * *

"Are you ill?"

"No, Kiku, I'm fine, but thank you for asking."

"I do not wish to sound presumptuous, but you do not appear fine."

"You don't have to worry about me," she lies, because her first duty is to Kiku, not herself. "I promise."

* * *

Time not spent with Kiku, Lovino, or her brother is spent with Feliciano, and Marie could not be more thankful for his presence in her life, all the cheerfulness he brings with him wherever he goes.

"Bella, I've got it!" he announces one day, bursting into Kiku's sitting room. "Let's take the afternoon off and go into the city! I'm sure Kiku wouldn't mind — would you, Kiku?"

Kiku shakes his head. "It would be fine by me."

"What for, though?"

"You know how you keep having that same dream, over and over? The one with the man, but you can't see his face?"

Marie nods.

"We can go find one of those dream readers. _Ooh,_ and there's a really nice gelato shop next door, I haven't been there in ages. I hope it's still open. It'll be like a date! Just don't tell my brother, _a-ha._ But before that — yes — the dream reader. They're sure to know what your dream means — I mean, that's kind of their job. But at the very, very least, no matter what they tell you, it's worth a shot, don't you think?"

But later, as Marie steps out of the dream reader's tent, she looks no better than she did when she first slipped in.

"What is it, bella? What did she say?"

"She said — " She traces the lines on her palm, her fingers walking the same paths the dream reader's did. "She said I actually _do_ know the man in my dream. I tried to explain to her that I really don't think so, but she insisted we'd already met. But, Feli — you believe me, don't you? I'm sure I've never met him before."

"Of course I believe you, bella. But how strange! I wonder what it all really means. I'm sure you'll find out one day, and when you do, you have to be sure to tell me, okay?"

He takes her hand and threads it through the crook of his arm as they make their way to the gelato shop.

"It's crazy, isn't it?" he asks, patting her hand. "To think that everything about our lives might be right there on the palm of our hands, right in front of our faces. So much info on such a tiny little space, though! How is all that supposed to fit on a tiny little hand like yours? Though, now that I think on it, I don't even think there's room enough on my Grandpa's hand for his ten wives, and let me tell you — he's got pretty big hands!"

For as much trouble as she has explaining this profound grief that's inexplicably come upon her — and that's silly, isn't it? One must actually lose someone or something in order to grieve, mustn't one? — Feliciano's noticed the change in her. He doesn't know what caused it, doesn't know how to make it better even though he tries and tries and tries. All he knows is that he doesn't like it. It makes such an impression on him that one day he will write a play under his pen name — Cesare Cagliostro — and Stella, the tragic heroine of the piece, will be inspired by her.

(Arthur will see the play. He will adore Stella.)

She will never truly understand what these strange dreams involving a faceless man mean, but Feliciano will make her immortal, and that is something, isn't it?

All this, and yet —

* * *

At her birth, the Lovers card and the Queen of Wands were drawn for Marie de Vries.

But her third birth card took everyone by surprise, for her third card was a blank.

The holy man apologized profusely to her parents, for this was a rare occurrence, indeed. Still, he could not draw another card for her, as only three were ever permitted to be drawn for a person.

_'Tis the will of the Fates,_ he assured her parents, _and therefore, though it is an unreadable card, it is still good. We shall simply have to wait and see how the Fates decide to use it in the guiding of her life._

She's confident the Fates have a plan, and she's been told their plans are always good. She just prays the emptiness on her third birth card won't always reflect the emptiness within her.

(It will.)

* * *

The Joker awkwardly shuffles his feet as he stands before Arthur.

"So…look." He runs a hand through his hair, making it even messier than before. "Here's the thing."

He chews on his lip.

"Yes?" Arthur prompts.

"I'm just gonna go ahead and say it."

"What's the matter, Joker? What's happened?"

"You know that kid she's seein'?"

"Yes."

"The runt with the temper?"

"Joker — "

"Boss, the kid asked her to _marry_ him."

Arthur can only stare at him.

"She said she _wanted_ to say yes," the Joker hastily continues, "but she said she couldn't. She gave him the talk about duty and how important the Queen of Hearts is to her, but then she said somethin' pretty weird. She said that she couldn't marry him because she already felt like she was waiting for somebody else."

Arthur gets up from his seat and goes to stand before the window.

"Not gonna lie, it made the kid pretty upset. But she said even _she_ couldn't explain it all that well, just that she knows that there's some guy out there she's supposed to meet. She doesn't know when or where or even how, but she dreams about the guy sometimes. He's standing on the beach and she can't see his face — I guess he's lookin' out at the water — but he's waiting for her, too, apparently."

And — _shit._ The Joker knew it was a bad idea to tell the Queen all this. Shit. Maybe he won't take the money today. _Shitfuckdamn._

"Boss, I don't know shit about what's going on, or why you want me to check up on her, but — that guy on the beach. She said he had blond hair. Is it you? Are you the guy she — "

"Thank you, Joker. That shall be all for today."

* * *

The long-awaited marriage between Prince Ivan of Clubs and a tomboy princess from Hearts is not the most fashionable event of the year — if Francis thinks Spades is poor, then Clubs is absolutely _beggarly_ by comparison — but nonetheless, every royal personage from each of the kingdoms attends.

Marie, seated next to Kiku, watches as a resplendently beautiful Princess Erzébet makes her way down the aisle to meet her intended.

"You are not impressed with the ceremony?" Kiku whispers.

"Hmm? No, it's lovely."

"You do not approve of the couple, then?"

"Oh, well — I don't know them well enough yet to really have an opinion of them."

"You do not look well. Could it be something you ate or drank? Perhaps the journey to Clubs took a harsher toll on you than you anticipated."

"Kiku, please don't worry. I'm fine, I promise."

Kiku sighs, a barely-there breath most people would miss, and rearranges the sleeves of his robe. "You always say that, but I never believe you."

Her lip trembles as she watches the couple recite their vows, and when they kiss and the guests erupt into cheers, she has to excuse herself.

Feliciano wants to run after her, but Kiku pulls him back down into his seat.

"But — "

Kiku shakes his head. "Give her a moment."

* * *

Arthur has only been to Clubs twice, and neither visit included a trip to the imperial city's cathedral.

Having already paid his respects to the new royal couple, he walks until he accidentally comes upon the cloister. Realizing he's lost, he turns and heads back the way he came, hoping to eventually reunite with the delegation from Spades.

* * *

Feliciano runs to look for Marie, eventually finding her hidden behind one of the thick stone pillars in the far end of the nave.

"Bella!" he cries, brushing past some of the wedding guests as he runs over to her. "Bella, are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Feli," she assures him, sniffling and wiping tears away from her cheeks.

"Oh, no — no, no, no," Feliciano mumbles, distraught. He pulls his rumpled handkerchief from his pocket and, cradling her face, dabs Marie's tears away. "Why are you crying? Please don't cry! You're gonna make me start crying, too!"

Marie's face turns pink with embarrassment. "I hope I didn't cause a scene…"

"What is the matter?" Kiku asks, coming up to them. "Whatever it may be, please do not hesitate to tell us."

She reaches up and takes gentle hold of Feliciano's wrists, pulling his hands away from her face.

"Thank you, both of you," she says, smiling sincerely first at one, then the other. "I really do appreciate it, but — "

She sees him out of the corner of her eye — a blond-haired man in a fine blue coat walking down the nave.

She can't see his face, but still, she'd know him anywhere.

"Bella?"

"Marie?"

_The man in my dreams. He looks like the man standing on the beach in my dreams._

Her heart racing, she breaks away from them to run after the man, drawn to him.

"Excuse me!" she calls out to him. "Sir — please, wait!"

The man stops.

"Sir?"

He hesitates for a long moment before slowly turning around to face her, and —

And —

The sudden, warm fullness of her heart is a wild, bucking thing. He is her clarity — if she had a heart before, it never beat until _now,_ looking at him.

"Have we met before?" she asks, wondering at him.

"I — no. I do not believe we have, my Lady."

"But it's so strange — I'm certain we have, somehow. Are you sure?"

He nods.

"Oh," she mumbles, crestfallen.

"I'm so — I'm so_ sorry — "_

"Oh, no, please don't be. _I'm_ the one who bothered _you,_ after all."

The man smiles, or tries to.

"It was no bother, my Lady," he assures her, his voice oddly husky.

He bows to her and, taking her hand in his own, kisses it.

"Good day, madam."

The man in the fine blue coat, a sprig of lavender pinned to his lapel, steals one last glance at her before he turns and walks out of her life.

.

.

.

**_The End_**

_._

_._

.

*Stella is Latin and Italian for "star"

*Doctor Cid (Final Fantasy XII) and the chicken knife (found in multiple games of the series)

*I'm no expert, but from what I've read, a blank Tarot card showing up in a deck is rare but not unheard of. It's usually just a harmless mistake on the printer's part, as it's easier to print 80 cards than an uneven 78. Some readers throw them away, but some leave them in and use them during readings.

Oh gosh, now that this story's done I don't even know what to say. Thank you so much for being a part of it. Thank you guys for every review, all the encouragement, everything. It really and truly meant a lot to me.

Take care, and I'll see you soon!


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